as a remedy to temptation, it was once believed that you could consider the ending (i.e., the consequence) of an action, and weigh it against the possible "rewards" of any indisgression (sp?).
BUT:
when taken too far, this deadens life. after all, you could look at the entirety of life, and say that we all end up dead. if that's the case, what's the use (significance) of all our "flapping about" in the interim???
martin heidegger, in sein und zeit (being and time), adopted a similarly buddhistic outlook. death (the end) gives meaning to each action. if the end is considered in all activities, then presumably all activities are directed (focused) towards meaning, and are not "frivolous" or "distracting."
the "problem" is that we are living a story that we are not the author to. we are not privvy to when the ending will precisely take place. therefore, as we do not know what end we are headed towards, or how long we have before we "arrive" (at that destination of non-arrival), how can we "organize" our lives towards that end?
it's funny that typically, in our society, certain knowledge of the end (i.e. you have six months to live) brings about a kind of radical mid-life crisis (end-life crisis?) in which people are expected to do all of these things that they'd "meant to do" or "always secretly wanted to do"; in the movies, people act really crazy and irrational, jumping out of airplanes or riding bulls.
from an outside perspective, it sometimes seems pretty silly... but then again, there is a real energetic going on. it's like all of this energy has been saved up, conserved, so that a person could sustain him/herself over the next day and the next and the next; and suddenly, that person realizes that s/he was saving it up for nothing. no gain. no loss. and then that energy explodes.
... i mentioned this previously, with regards to reversals of cliche platitudes. "live each day as though it were your last" converted to "live your last day as though it were each [every] day." i still believe this is true. not that i am physically able to take care of everything that needs to be taken care of... far from it! but i try to live in such a way that, were i to die tonight, well, i'd have no real regrets...
funny, on a blog devoted to regrets, to speak of having none...
but i'm beginning to realize what regrets are. if you see that regret and hope are two sides of the same coin, and that regret is the shadow of a lost hope, and hope is the risk of another regret, then BOTH cease to become very problematic. regret and hope are just a natural part of life, just as memory and projection are natural "tools" in our progression through life. neither are particularly good or bad. it's just the fixation on one or the other, and the inability to see life as it is that becomes- imbalanced...
Friday, May 30, 2008
untoad story, first life, continuation
He hears a distant scraping roar, and other voices, not his brother’s. He peers far to his left, towards the other end of the long canal, the end opposite the tunnel. He sees a couple of familiar figures, the two skaters of his neighborhood, Jason and Troy, doing half-pipes on the inclines. They, like his brother’s friends, haven’t eyes low enough to see him. So he pretends not to see them. He folds his forearms across his eyes, trying to black out the world.
But the sound of those wheels, like tears in paper, grows closer and closer.
Soon, he can actually feel the vibrations and the wind, and he has to open his eyes.
“Yo runt,” says Jason, with flat eyes. “Get out of the way. You messin’ up our run.”
He’s above the young boy, at the top of the slope he’s on, the fingers of one hand meshing with the chainlink fence. His right foot’s on the tail of his board, and the only thing keeping the green plastic wheels from careening down is his other hand holding the board’s eager nose high in the air.
Jason’s friend Troy, meanwhile, is at the dirty base of the canal, looking up at the young boy and grinning like a shark.
The young boy obediently gets up, stands clumsily, brushing the dust off his back.
Jason peers down the length of his rat-shaped nose. “So, where’s your brother?”
The young boy nods towards the tunnel. It’s still possible to hear, faintly, echoes bouncing off the dirty concrete walls. Jason has to believe him.
Jason stares at the tunnel for a few seconds at least. Then, he shakes his head slowly, like a dog shedding water in slow motion. When he looks at the young boy again, it’s so that he can smile through him.
“Listen, kid.” He leans out, the arm gripping the chain link extending straight, his only anchor. “What’s your name again?”
Jason had never asked him his name before, so the “again” part’s just his way of being friendly. As if he had once had even a passing thought of him.
“Randy,” murmurs the young boy.
It’s pretty clear that Jason doesn’t hear the name, but it’s also quite clear that he doesn’t particularly care. “Well, kid,” he continues, “your brother’s not always around.” Jason’s weaselly eyes roll around, as if to drive home the point. “And if you tell him, well, you might feel safe for a little while. But when you’re by yourself, just like you are now, then.”
He leaves it at that.
And then he nods to Troy.
Before Randy realizes what’s going on, Troy pushes him from behind so that he falls into the concrete slope. He feels the wind rush out of him as his chest slams hard. He places his small palms beside him to push himself back up, but Troy plants a foot firmly into the small of his back.
“I wouldn’t get up if I were you,” he calls, laughing, from somewhere up above. Troy’s foot springs off Randy’s back, leaving a sharply painful footprint.
And that’s when he hears the sound.
Randy turns his head towards it, even as it deafens him, the sound of a phonebook tearing. He sees the eating edge of green plastic wheels spinning hungrily towards his head.
And then, for a moment, Randy blanks out.
When he comes to, his throat is hoarse, and he feels warm wetness between his legs, his pants legs sticking to his thighs.
Dim and fuzzy at first, he hears voices.
“Whoo hoo!” he hears. It’s Troy. “You did it!”
Jason’s voice is breathless, but struggling to remain calm, nonchalant. “Check it out,” he chuckles. “The runt wet himself.”
“Yo, we better get out of here,” Troy says giddily. “That kid screams like a fucking girl.”
And then Randy hears the two of them, Jason and Troy, running up the slope beside him to a wire-cut hole in the chain-link fence, and from there, out into the weedelia field.
But the sound of those wheels, like tears in paper, grows closer and closer.
Soon, he can actually feel the vibrations and the wind, and he has to open his eyes.
“Yo runt,” says Jason, with flat eyes. “Get out of the way. You messin’ up our run.”
He’s above the young boy, at the top of the slope he’s on, the fingers of one hand meshing with the chainlink fence. His right foot’s on the tail of his board, and the only thing keeping the green plastic wheels from careening down is his other hand holding the board’s eager nose high in the air.
Jason’s friend Troy, meanwhile, is at the dirty base of the canal, looking up at the young boy and grinning like a shark.
The young boy obediently gets up, stands clumsily, brushing the dust off his back.
Jason peers down the length of his rat-shaped nose. “So, where’s your brother?”
The young boy nods towards the tunnel. It’s still possible to hear, faintly, echoes bouncing off the dirty concrete walls. Jason has to believe him.
Jason stares at the tunnel for a few seconds at least. Then, he shakes his head slowly, like a dog shedding water in slow motion. When he looks at the young boy again, it’s so that he can smile through him.
“Listen, kid.” He leans out, the arm gripping the chain link extending straight, his only anchor. “What’s your name again?”
Jason had never asked him his name before, so the “again” part’s just his way of being friendly. As if he had once had even a passing thought of him.
“Randy,” murmurs the young boy.
It’s pretty clear that Jason doesn’t hear the name, but it’s also quite clear that he doesn’t particularly care. “Well, kid,” he continues, “your brother’s not always around.” Jason’s weaselly eyes roll around, as if to drive home the point. “And if you tell him, well, you might feel safe for a little while. But when you’re by yourself, just like you are now, then.”
He leaves it at that.
And then he nods to Troy.
Before Randy realizes what’s going on, Troy pushes him from behind so that he falls into the concrete slope. He feels the wind rush out of him as his chest slams hard. He places his small palms beside him to push himself back up, but Troy plants a foot firmly into the small of his back.
“I wouldn’t get up if I were you,” he calls, laughing, from somewhere up above. Troy’s foot springs off Randy’s back, leaving a sharply painful footprint.
And that’s when he hears the sound.
Randy turns his head towards it, even as it deafens him, the sound of a phonebook tearing. He sees the eating edge of green plastic wheels spinning hungrily towards his head.
And then, for a moment, Randy blanks out.
When he comes to, his throat is hoarse, and he feels warm wetness between his legs, his pants legs sticking to his thighs.
Dim and fuzzy at first, he hears voices.
“Whoo hoo!” he hears. It’s Troy. “You did it!”
Jason’s voice is breathless, but struggling to remain calm, nonchalant. “Check it out,” he chuckles. “The runt wet himself.”
“Yo, we better get out of here,” Troy says giddily. “That kid screams like a fucking girl.”
And then Randy hears the two of them, Jason and Troy, running up the slope beside him to a wire-cut hole in the chain-link fence, and from there, out into the weedelia field.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
begging the question
FROM: http://www.nizkor.org/features/fallacies/begging-the-question.html
What is "Begging the Question?"
"Begging the question" is a form of logical fallacy in which a statement or claim is assumed to be true without evidence other than the statement or claim itself. When one begs the question, the initial assumption of a statement is treated as already proven without any logic to show why the statement is true in the first place.
A simple example would be "I think he is unattractive because he is ugly." The adjective "ugly" does not explain why the subject is "unattractive" -- they virtually amount to the same subjective meaning, and the proof is merely a restatement of the premise. The sentence has begged the question.
What is it Not?
To beg the question does not mean "to raise the question." (e.g. "It begs the question, why is he so dumb?") This is a common error of usage made by those who mistake the word "question" in the phrase to refer to a literal question. Sadly, the error has grown more and more common with time, such that even journalists, advertisers, and major mass media entities have fallen prey to "BTQ Abuse."
While descriptivists and other such laissez-faire linguists are content to allow the misconception to fall into the vernacular, it cannot be denied that logic and philosophy stand to lose an important conceptual label should the meaning of BTQ become diluted to the point that we must constantly distinguish between the traditional usage and the erroneous "modern" usage. This is why we fight.
What is "Begging the Question?"
"Begging the question" is a form of logical fallacy in which a statement or claim is assumed to be true without evidence other than the statement or claim itself. When one begs the question, the initial assumption of a statement is treated as already proven without any logic to show why the statement is true in the first place.
A simple example would be "I think he is unattractive because he is ugly." The adjective "ugly" does not explain why the subject is "unattractive" -- they virtually amount to the same subjective meaning, and the proof is merely a restatement of the premise. The sentence has begged the question.
What is it Not?
To beg the question does not mean "to raise the question." (e.g. "It begs the question, why is he so dumb?") This is a common error of usage made by those who mistake the word "question" in the phrase to refer to a literal question. Sadly, the error has grown more and more common with time, such that even journalists, advertisers, and major mass media entities have fallen prey to "BTQ Abuse."
While descriptivists and other such laissez-faire linguists are content to allow the misconception to fall into the vernacular, it cannot be denied that logic and philosophy stand to lose an important conceptual label should the meaning of BTQ become diluted to the point that we must constantly distinguish between the traditional usage and the erroneous "modern" usage. This is why we fight.
a philosophical question
does it make sense to say that something has meaning "in and of itself?"
what does that mean, in practical (not just mathematical) terms? is it a kind of symmetry (frankly, the only kind of symmetry experienced in my life tends to be absurd/meaningless, i.e., the ironic symmetry of the "return trip down")? or is it a kind of sense of structure? is internally consistent meaning something similar to the japanese character for sincerity, that the heart "means what it says?" and if so, then doesn't meaning relate to speaking, and isn't speaking/language the "external" structuring of thoughts?
how can such immanent meaning even be aware of itself? how can it see that it is consistent? consistent with what?
just messing with these questions. honestly, i'd rather avoid them completely. philosophical issues are fundamentally irresolvable, i think. at some point, faith jumps into the picture, with its "leaps." and then we just realize we're jumping to conclusions. always jumping.
philosophy as such entertains. but living is an entirely different animal. it has its own motivations. its own meanings. just because we question what those meanings are doesn't mean that we can or even want to change them in any way. if anything, philosophy just makes most people feel acutely the absurdity of their existence.
it does for me, anyway.
... but then again, maybe absurdity is at the heart of civilization. it is the attempt to distance oneself. and maybe if we are, like, totally far out, then we can forget what we used to be, and what we are.
what does that mean, in practical (not just mathematical) terms? is it a kind of symmetry (frankly, the only kind of symmetry experienced in my life tends to be absurd/meaningless, i.e., the ironic symmetry of the "return trip down")? or is it a kind of sense of structure? is internally consistent meaning something similar to the japanese character for sincerity, that the heart "means what it says?" and if so, then doesn't meaning relate to speaking, and isn't speaking/language the "external" structuring of thoughts?
how can such immanent meaning even be aware of itself? how can it see that it is consistent? consistent with what?
just messing with these questions. honestly, i'd rather avoid them completely. philosophical issues are fundamentally irresolvable, i think. at some point, faith jumps into the picture, with its "leaps." and then we just realize we're jumping to conclusions. always jumping.
philosophy as such entertains. but living is an entirely different animal. it has its own motivations. its own meanings. just because we question what those meanings are doesn't mean that we can or even want to change them in any way. if anything, philosophy just makes most people feel acutely the absurdity of their existence.
it does for me, anyway.
... but then again, maybe absurdity is at the heart of civilization. it is the attempt to distance oneself. and maybe if we are, like, totally far out, then we can forget what we used to be, and what we are.
fear of irrelevance
we are a cognitive and a literary society.
even if a large percentage of us don't actively "think" or "read," our consciousness seems structured in cognitive and literary ways. for example, our greatest societal and individual fears have more to do with cognitive and literary "breakdowns" than with "real" material concerns.
here's a list of fears that i have, which i believe most people nowadays share:
fear of forgetting (alzheimer's), greater than that other debilitating disease, parkinson's (inability to control motor functions)
fear of being forgotten
fear of being humiliated
fear of being irrelevant
and my greatest fear: that my children will experience meaningless suffering, or pass on before i do...
these are some of the fears that I have. and you can consider them all, in one form or another, related to thinking or "stories" (issues which are themselves intimately tied together).
death in itself, for me anyway, ceases to have as much stigma as it used to. sure, there are grotesque and awful and drawn out ways to die, but in the end, well, it's just the end, isn't it? and, face it, FACE IT, no, really! FACE IT! we all go in the end. no one's found the immortality pill yet. the best they've done is botox or cosmetic surgery to make your skin stretch over your dying insides.
but the loss of meaning or honor, why, issues like that seem less easy to stomach. which is my point. i am, and maybe we are, a society that lives and breathes a "storybook life." and in stories, people suffer and die all the time. but a good story needs to retain a semblance of meaning, and draw a certain degree of interest from its readers, or it becomes unread and forgotten. and so, what i fear, and maybe what others fear, is that the story (our lives), with all its plot twists, doesn't make sense, is unconvincing, or is unreadable, and hence only worthy of being forgotten, irrelevant, etc.
arguably, the issue of children is also related to meaning, although i'm not so selfish as all that. my fear for my children is a much more visceral thing. i would gladly die if i could spare my kids real suffering... they are, quite frankly, the only reason i am alive...
...(doubting my own statements)...
... hmmm... actually, i think that most of the fears i cited above are just re-incarnations of the death fear. it's just that we imagine that if we "survive" in memory (whether in the memory of individuals we've known, or in "cultural memory"), then we've achieved a degree of immortality (in the sense that we become relevant so long as someone remembers us)... BUT in actuality, that too will come to an end.
ultimately, we will all be forgotten and irrelevant. ALL OF US.
... so what's the use of crying? or being afraid?
... (more reflection)...
i come back to my children. i look upon them, see how each new thought forms spontaneously within them, how their expressions and gestures explode unbidden, ignited by that spark within their eyes...
this is what i fear for. the loss of children (mine in particular). the end of the possibility for other possibilities. death can cancel ME out, and the world could forget me completely. who cares, i'm old hat... but spare the children. let them live a story of their own, let their stories at least come to the same point where i am now, having lived long enough to have the equanimity to face my own individual end in peace.
even if a large percentage of us don't actively "think" or "read," our consciousness seems structured in cognitive and literary ways. for example, our greatest societal and individual fears have more to do with cognitive and literary "breakdowns" than with "real" material concerns.
here's a list of fears that i have, which i believe most people nowadays share:
fear of forgetting (alzheimer's), greater than that other debilitating disease, parkinson's (inability to control motor functions)
fear of being forgotten
fear of being humiliated
fear of being irrelevant
and my greatest fear: that my children will experience meaningless suffering, or pass on before i do...
these are some of the fears that I have. and you can consider them all, in one form or another, related to thinking or "stories" (issues which are themselves intimately tied together).
death in itself, for me anyway, ceases to have as much stigma as it used to. sure, there are grotesque and awful and drawn out ways to die, but in the end, well, it's just the end, isn't it? and, face it, FACE IT, no, really! FACE IT! we all go in the end. no one's found the immortality pill yet. the best they've done is botox or cosmetic surgery to make your skin stretch over your dying insides.
but the loss of meaning or honor, why, issues like that seem less easy to stomach. which is my point. i am, and maybe we are, a society that lives and breathes a "storybook life." and in stories, people suffer and die all the time. but a good story needs to retain a semblance of meaning, and draw a certain degree of interest from its readers, or it becomes unread and forgotten. and so, what i fear, and maybe what others fear, is that the story (our lives), with all its plot twists, doesn't make sense, is unconvincing, or is unreadable, and hence only worthy of being forgotten, irrelevant, etc.
arguably, the issue of children is also related to meaning, although i'm not so selfish as all that. my fear for my children is a much more visceral thing. i would gladly die if i could spare my kids real suffering... they are, quite frankly, the only reason i am alive...
...(doubting my own statements)...
... hmmm... actually, i think that most of the fears i cited above are just re-incarnations of the death fear. it's just that we imagine that if we "survive" in memory (whether in the memory of individuals we've known, or in "cultural memory"), then we've achieved a degree of immortality (in the sense that we become relevant so long as someone remembers us)... BUT in actuality, that too will come to an end.
ultimately, we will all be forgotten and irrelevant. ALL OF US.
... so what's the use of crying? or being afraid?
... (more reflection)...
i come back to my children. i look upon them, see how each new thought forms spontaneously within them, how their expressions and gestures explode unbidden, ignited by that spark within their eyes...
this is what i fear for. the loss of children (mine in particular). the end of the possibility for other possibilities. death can cancel ME out, and the world could forget me completely. who cares, i'm old hat... but spare the children. let them live a story of their own, let their stories at least come to the same point where i am now, having lived long enough to have the equanimity to face my own individual end in peace.
tmbg, apartment four
one of my favorites from tmbg, here come the 1 2 3's. don't ask me why. great video. cute, fun spirit. wouldn't you love to live in apartment four and just play drums with your best friend all day?
"deliciously" lyrics from the cure, "disintegration"
oh i miss the kiss of treachery
the shameless kiss of vanity
the soft and the black and the velvety
up tight against the side of me
and heart and mouth and eye all bleed
in running thickening streams of greed
as bit by bit it starts the need
to just let go my party piece
oh i miss the kiss of treachery
the aching kiss before i feed
the scent of a love of a younger meat
and the sound it makes when it cuts in deep
the holding up on bended knees
the addiction of duplicities
as bit by bit it starts the need
to just let go my party piece...
the shameless kiss of vanity
the soft and the black and the velvety
up tight against the side of me
and heart and mouth and eye all bleed
in running thickening streams of greed
as bit by bit it starts the need
to just let go my party piece
oh i miss the kiss of treachery
the aching kiss before i feed
the scent of a love of a younger meat
and the sound it makes when it cuts in deep
the holding up on bended knees
the addiction of duplicities
as bit by bit it starts the need
to just let go my party piece...
reworking: Amphibious, the Untoad Story, First Life: Brother's Keeper
The green-black water laps up against the concrete lip at the young boy’s feet, stirred backwards by the other, larger boys. The young boy looks down at the green algae and black lichen and the silver pearls of air that form the carpet beneath his shoes, notes how it all breathes to life as the waves subtly crest once or twice through their fabric. Then he looks at the water itself, the forbidden water, where he, and he alone, is not supposed to go. His eyes focus on the black squiggly shapes dispersing and converging, confused, the question-mark tadpoles. And then his eyes blur.
He swipes his forearm absently across his face, smearing the dampness. He knows he’s not supposed to cry. But he wants to not be left alone. He wants to follow, he wants to join his brother and the other big kids, as they cut the darkness and make ripples and echoes in the tunnel ahead.
His brother had been adamant.
“Stay here,” he had commanded, as though speaking to a dog. And to nip any and all protests in the bud, he had added: “The only reason you’re here is because I’ve got to watch you.”
The logic of that statement still escapes the young boy. He reverses it in his six year old head (something he does on occasion), and for some reason, it comes out as a question: “I’ve got to watch you because that’s the only reason I’m here?”
The young boy steps reluctantly away from the shallow shore, the ground sucking at his feet. He turns his back to the large rectangular tunnel at the end of the rain drainage canal he’s in, the tunnel that cuts deep and dark into the slope of the weedelia covered hillside, the tunnel where his brother’s echoes mix in reverberations with the hoots of his two friends. He walks to the drier floor of the canal, where the algae and lichens have turned to black powder. Then he crawls up one of the angled slopes. The concrete is warm and stained red-orange, having soaked in much of the afternoon rays. Halfway up he sits, then lies, six year old arms folded under his head, as he stares up at the cloudless sky.
A cloudless span of time passes.
He hears a distant scraping roar, and other voices, not his brother’s. He peers far to his left, towards the other end of the long canal, the end opposite the tunnel. He sees a couple of familiar figures, the two skaters of his neighborhood, Jason and Troy, doing half-pipes on the inclines. They, like his brother’s friends, haven’t eyes low enough to see him. So he pretends not to see them. He folds his forearms across his eyes, trying to black out the world.
But the sound of those wheels, like tears in paper, grows closer and closer.
Soon, he can actually feel the vibrations and the wind, and he has to open his eyes.
“Yo runt,” says Jason, with flat eyes. “Get out of the way. You messin’ up our run.”
He’s above the young boy, at the top of the slope he’s on, the fingers of one hand meshing with the chainlink fence. His right foot’s on the tail of his board, and the only thing keeping the green plastic wheels from careening down is his other hand holding the board’s eager nose high in the air.
Jason’s friend Troy, meanwhile, is at the dirty base of the canal, looking up at the young boy and grinning like a shark.
He swipes his forearm absently across his face, smearing the dampness. He knows he’s not supposed to cry. But he wants to not be left alone. He wants to follow, he wants to join his brother and the other big kids, as they cut the darkness and make ripples and echoes in the tunnel ahead.
His brother had been adamant.
“Stay here,” he had commanded, as though speaking to a dog. And to nip any and all protests in the bud, he had added: “The only reason you’re here is because I’ve got to watch you.”
The logic of that statement still escapes the young boy. He reverses it in his six year old head (something he does on occasion), and for some reason, it comes out as a question: “I’ve got to watch you because that’s the only reason I’m here?”
The young boy steps reluctantly away from the shallow shore, the ground sucking at his feet. He turns his back to the large rectangular tunnel at the end of the rain drainage canal he’s in, the tunnel that cuts deep and dark into the slope of the weedelia covered hillside, the tunnel where his brother’s echoes mix in reverberations with the hoots of his two friends. He walks to the drier floor of the canal, where the algae and lichens have turned to black powder. Then he crawls up one of the angled slopes. The concrete is warm and stained red-orange, having soaked in much of the afternoon rays. Halfway up he sits, then lies, six year old arms folded under his head, as he stares up at the cloudless sky.
A cloudless span of time passes.
He hears a distant scraping roar, and other voices, not his brother’s. He peers far to his left, towards the other end of the long canal, the end opposite the tunnel. He sees a couple of familiar figures, the two skaters of his neighborhood, Jason and Troy, doing half-pipes on the inclines. They, like his brother’s friends, haven’t eyes low enough to see him. So he pretends not to see them. He folds his forearms across his eyes, trying to black out the world.
But the sound of those wheels, like tears in paper, grows closer and closer.
Soon, he can actually feel the vibrations and the wind, and he has to open his eyes.
“Yo runt,” says Jason, with flat eyes. “Get out of the way. You messin’ up our run.”
He’s above the young boy, at the top of the slope he’s on, the fingers of one hand meshing with the chainlink fence. His right foot’s on the tail of his board, and the only thing keeping the green plastic wheels from careening down is his other hand holding the board’s eager nose high in the air.
Jason’s friend Troy, meanwhile, is at the dirty base of the canal, looking up at the young boy and grinning like a shark.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
useless renovations
recently, the mayor (i believe) decided to use a cost-effective measure to combat the blatant drug use going on on river street. to those of you who don't know, river street isn't really a street per se, it's more of a walkway that runs alongside a (now filthy) river in the middle of chinatown. along that walkway, there are a bunch of tables for playing chess (actually, usually pai gao is the game of choice on them). there USED to be a kind of terracing above the tables, providing a limited amount of shade.
that gets to the mayor's anti-drug efforts. get this: construction workers removed the terracing over the tables, thus eliminating all of the shade. according to the mayor, this will reduce the amount of drug activity going on there, because the shade of the terrace makes it an attractive "hangout" for the tweakers.
(by the way, there IS a serious drug problem going on there. i walk by river street at least twice a week, because my acupuncture school is in the chinese cultural plaza; you can see deals going down in broad daylight [maybe now, it's even broader], and people sitting in little corners beside garbage cans "lighting up." sad.)
my issue is this: how does removing a terrace actually combat crystal meth dealing and use? that's like how the government is "combating homelessness," which, by the way, is another big problem (an "eyesore" as many of the tourist-conscious are fond of saying). see, a LOT of homeless people live on the beaches out in waianae (the western edge of the island). and the way the government "cracked down" on the problem was by "renovating" the beaches (basically bringing in construction equipment to take down the tarp tents, etc.).
how does that really combat the problem?
you remove the ground upon which people live or deal drugs or whatever. so what? they will just move somewhere else.
i don't see the value of the mayor's "cost-cutting" measure at all.
actually, it's pretty sad to see the tables unused in the middle of the day. sure, it's also kinda sad to see all those chess tables filled with transvestites and druggies and chinese gamblers who piss and shit in the nearby river... but then, what's the point of having those tables if no one is going to use them? why not just get rid of the tables period?
i eat sometimes at kent's, which is just beside those tables. and the owner, she doesn't quite understand the point either. from her perspective, all it does is cut down on her business.
well, yet another "intelligent" move from "up above."
that gets to the mayor's anti-drug efforts. get this: construction workers removed the terracing over the tables, thus eliminating all of the shade. according to the mayor, this will reduce the amount of drug activity going on there, because the shade of the terrace makes it an attractive "hangout" for the tweakers.
(by the way, there IS a serious drug problem going on there. i walk by river street at least twice a week, because my acupuncture school is in the chinese cultural plaza; you can see deals going down in broad daylight [maybe now, it's even broader], and people sitting in little corners beside garbage cans "lighting up." sad.)
my issue is this: how does removing a terrace actually combat crystal meth dealing and use? that's like how the government is "combating homelessness," which, by the way, is another big problem (an "eyesore" as many of the tourist-conscious are fond of saying). see, a LOT of homeless people live on the beaches out in waianae (the western edge of the island). and the way the government "cracked down" on the problem was by "renovating" the beaches (basically bringing in construction equipment to take down the tarp tents, etc.).
how does that really combat the problem?
you remove the ground upon which people live or deal drugs or whatever. so what? they will just move somewhere else.
i don't see the value of the mayor's "cost-cutting" measure at all.
actually, it's pretty sad to see the tables unused in the middle of the day. sure, it's also kinda sad to see all those chess tables filled with transvestites and druggies and chinese gamblers who piss and shit in the nearby river... but then, what's the point of having those tables if no one is going to use them? why not just get rid of the tables period?
i eat sometimes at kent's, which is just beside those tables. and the owner, she doesn't quite understand the point either. from her perspective, all it does is cut down on her business.
well, yet another "intelligent" move from "up above."
they might be giants, here come the 1 2 3's
they might be giants has a new kids cd called "here come the 1 2 3's", a followup to their hit "here come the a b c's." it seems the band (which i kinda shied away from in my high school years cuz they were just too "nerdy" and "quirky" [coupled with my natural nerdiness, it would have been an overload]) has truly found their nitch in playing songs that appeal both to kids (without any preachy, moralizing lyrics; just fun funny fun) and to their parents (who are- to put it mildly- quite sick of singing barney or wonder pets songs over and over and over).
i have so many favorites and so do the kids. in fact, we spent a large portion of our shower together, and the drive to school this morning, discussing and debating our favorite tmbg songs.
i like: "there's only one everything," "apartment four," and "figure eight."
aiden likes: "triops has three eyes," and "nonagon."
willow likes: "dozen monkeys," the seven song.
both aiden and willow like: "the seven days of the week," a great song for kids and adults alike. lyrics:
"Oh no, no i never go to work,
oh no, no i never go to work
on monday, i never go to work
on tuesday, i stay at home
on wednesday, i'm not inclined
work is the last thing on my mind
on thursday, it's a holiday
and fridays i detest
and it's much too late on saturday
and sunday is the day of rest."
great work ethic.
i have so many favorites and so do the kids. in fact, we spent a large portion of our shower together, and the drive to school this morning, discussing and debating our favorite tmbg songs.
i like: "there's only one everything," "apartment four," and "figure eight."
aiden likes: "triops has three eyes," and "nonagon."
willow likes: "dozen monkeys," the seven song.
both aiden and willow like: "the seven days of the week," a great song for kids and adults alike. lyrics:
"Oh no, no i never go to work,
oh no, no i never go to work
on monday, i never go to work
on tuesday, i stay at home
on wednesday, i'm not inclined
work is the last thing on my mind
on thursday, it's a holiday
and fridays i detest
and it's much too late on saturday
and sunday is the day of rest."
great work ethic.
humiliation, boredom, other stuff
i was recently working on a woman who likes to listen to various "self help/spirituality" audio cds. you know, stuff like wayne dyer (sp?), eckhart tolle (?), etc. well, this last time, she was listening to carolyn myss as i worked on her. now, unlike most of the fare, myss is very critical of the new age "spirituality" which she says is anything but spiritual, and is merely a new transmogrification of selfishness and self-centeredness: i.e., if i say my prayers and affirmations, then god will grant me precisely what i want.
myss idealizes instead the humility exemplified by the "great religious figures": jesus, buddha, etc. also, she points to various mystics of the christian tradition, most notably theresa of alvillar.
myss spoke about the appropriate/inappropriate (?) confounding of the virtue of humility with that which we in the modern egocentric era dread most, humiliation. why do we dread humiliation so much, inordinately much, such that even significant degrees of physical pain seem preferable to even the slightest sullying of our reputation??? and, why is humility, an almost universal quality of every saint and bodhisattva, why is it always OVERLOOKED?
[a side note: not to anger the devout christians out there, but myss does make an interesting statement: why is it that the "cosmic christ" (i.e. jesus christ as the son of GOD, judgment and power) is worshiped, and the "suffering jesus" (i.e. the wholly human and mortal, the bearer of infinite suffering) is, if not overlooked, then rarely if ever EMULATED? the jesus that served and loved ALL people... lepers, everyone excluded and lowly...]
myss's discussion on humility/humiliation, coupled with her emphasis on the path of mysticism as one of radical surrender to process (she stated emphatically that the mystical path NEVER aims for perfection, and only strives to maintain process)- all of this seemed to strike a chord with me... if you read my blog, you'll most assuredly encounter imperfection (that's putting things mildly)... if i aimed for perfection, well, there'd be nothing for you to read...
i've heard of this a lot: art as a process of surrender. i think it's true (of course, i'd be arrogant to even begin to lay claim to the vaunted status of "artiste"). those who believe the artistic process is a positive (i.e. constructive) experience are only half right; the outside, superficial understanding of art. but to produce art, one must be radically involved in a process that negates the self. art is produced, in other words, in spite of ourselves. "in spite" here can be read in many ways. i do believe at times that art is almost a malicious destruction of the self, because such malice is the only proper expression amenable to the controlling self's relation to the artistic process and product.
it's either you or me, bub, says art, and so "me" (the self) has got to go...
so anyway, the myss cd kinda subtly influenced my thinking of late. not that i've been any more comfortable with myself, and my writing, and my everything, but at least i DO take comfort in the notion of process, that i don't have to be perfect, that as long as i am sincere in each passing moment, then i am on the "path." my recent "flash poetry" (maybe more like flush poetry, as in the color my face should be when people read them, or as in what people should do with printed versions of them) have been somewhat spontaneous (often forced) expressions of my dominant mood of late: a kind of resigned helplessness, a fundamental boredom, masking a quiet desperation...
... yesterday, was it? i attended my first lantern floating festival, along with lynn and the kids. it was nice (although maybe the ceremony itself was a bit too long; it was hard entertaining/carrying the kids in the surf). willow asked all kinds of questions.
willow: "where is the lantern going? i miss it."
me: "well, it's going to heaven, so that my grandpa and your grandma can read what we wrote."
willow: "but you said that they were going to catch them all later, so they wouldn't make garbage."
me: "... okay, well, there's two parts to the lantern. there's one part that will go to heaven. and the other part, the solid part, that's what they're going to catch later."
willow: "is the part that goes to heaven the part that we wrote on? because i want that part back. i didn't finish drawing my picture."
me: "... willow, it's okay. whatever is in your heart, that's what is important. the feelings that you have for the people that we wrote to."
willow: "but why did we write on the lantern then?"
me: "..."
sometimes i wish we had a clear religious tradition in our family (it would make explanations like the above much simpler), but i wanted things to be decidedly open with our kids in that regard. if they wish to believe in something, then i'm all for it. but i don't want (if possible) our kids to be judgmental and dogmatic and closed minded, if at all possible, because of a restriction to one belief-system. i want them to know that there is a wide world out there, with various perspectives/mindsets. i know, i know, there are endless pros and cons to this... but i feel as long as we make sure our kids have good HEARTS, their minds will somehow settle on a belief system that seems compatible with their sensibilities... in time...
myss idealizes instead the humility exemplified by the "great religious figures": jesus, buddha, etc. also, she points to various mystics of the christian tradition, most notably theresa of alvillar.
myss spoke about the appropriate/inappropriate (?) confounding of the virtue of humility with that which we in the modern egocentric era dread most, humiliation. why do we dread humiliation so much, inordinately much, such that even significant degrees of physical pain seem preferable to even the slightest sullying of our reputation??? and, why is humility, an almost universal quality of every saint and bodhisattva, why is it always OVERLOOKED?
[a side note: not to anger the devout christians out there, but myss does make an interesting statement: why is it that the "cosmic christ" (i.e. jesus christ as the son of GOD, judgment and power) is worshiped, and the "suffering jesus" (i.e. the wholly human and mortal, the bearer of infinite suffering) is, if not overlooked, then rarely if ever EMULATED? the jesus that served and loved ALL people... lepers, everyone excluded and lowly...]
myss's discussion on humility/humiliation, coupled with her emphasis on the path of mysticism as one of radical surrender to process (she stated emphatically that the mystical path NEVER aims for perfection, and only strives to maintain process)- all of this seemed to strike a chord with me... if you read my blog, you'll most assuredly encounter imperfection (that's putting things mildly)... if i aimed for perfection, well, there'd be nothing for you to read...
i've heard of this a lot: art as a process of surrender. i think it's true (of course, i'd be arrogant to even begin to lay claim to the vaunted status of "artiste"). those who believe the artistic process is a positive (i.e. constructive) experience are only half right; the outside, superficial understanding of art. but to produce art, one must be radically involved in a process that negates the self. art is produced, in other words, in spite of ourselves. "in spite" here can be read in many ways. i do believe at times that art is almost a malicious destruction of the self, because such malice is the only proper expression amenable to the controlling self's relation to the artistic process and product.
it's either you or me, bub, says art, and so "me" (the self) has got to go...
so anyway, the myss cd kinda subtly influenced my thinking of late. not that i've been any more comfortable with myself, and my writing, and my everything, but at least i DO take comfort in the notion of process, that i don't have to be perfect, that as long as i am sincere in each passing moment, then i am on the "path." my recent "flash poetry" (maybe more like flush poetry, as in the color my face should be when people read them, or as in what people should do with printed versions of them) have been somewhat spontaneous (often forced) expressions of my dominant mood of late: a kind of resigned helplessness, a fundamental boredom, masking a quiet desperation...
... yesterday, was it? i attended my first lantern floating festival, along with lynn and the kids. it was nice (although maybe the ceremony itself was a bit too long; it was hard entertaining/carrying the kids in the surf). willow asked all kinds of questions.
willow: "where is the lantern going? i miss it."
me: "well, it's going to heaven, so that my grandpa and your grandma can read what we wrote."
willow: "but you said that they were going to catch them all later, so they wouldn't make garbage."
me: "... okay, well, there's two parts to the lantern. there's one part that will go to heaven. and the other part, the solid part, that's what they're going to catch later."
willow: "is the part that goes to heaven the part that we wrote on? because i want that part back. i didn't finish drawing my picture."
me: "... willow, it's okay. whatever is in your heart, that's what is important. the feelings that you have for the people that we wrote to."
willow: "but why did we write on the lantern then?"
me: "..."
sometimes i wish we had a clear religious tradition in our family (it would make explanations like the above much simpler), but i wanted things to be decidedly open with our kids in that regard. if they wish to believe in something, then i'm all for it. but i don't want (if possible) our kids to be judgmental and dogmatic and closed minded, if at all possible, because of a restriction to one belief-system. i want them to know that there is a wide world out there, with various perspectives/mindsets. i know, i know, there are endless pros and cons to this... but i feel as long as we make sure our kids have good HEARTS, their minds will somehow settle on a belief system that seems compatible with their sensibilities... in time...
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
flat coffee
i used to rule the world
i could push it round with each written line
and my destination would arrive
whenever i did.
the story i wrote
always followed the
protagonist
(who bore a striking
resemblance)
and all the struggles
he faced
(heroically, even
in his doubting moments)-
well, if you skipped
a few pages
you'd see him
surmounting.
if you skipped
even more, to
the back of the book
there was
a guaranteed happy
ending of some sort-
win the war
get the girl
even when tragic
what makes me laugh now
is how comic it all was
predictably meaningful
(oh, so meaningful)
resolutions.
now no one and
nothing
comes when i call
and if sentences make sense
it's because
they are tasteless and flat
and to the degree that they don't
it's because
they approximate truth
("truth")
with no subject-verb agreements
and the tense changing midway and
no one quite getting the point
(particularly me).
so now i sweep
through the dust
arrange it in lines
to gather
or, in a fit,
make clouds
that irritate the passages:
just to get some
kind of reaction.
[so now i sweep
the streets i
used to own]
i could push it round with each written line
and my destination would arrive
whenever i did.
the story i wrote
always followed the
protagonist
(who bore a striking
resemblance)
and all the struggles
he faced
(heroically, even
in his doubting moments)-
well, if you skipped
a few pages
you'd see him
surmounting.
if you skipped
even more, to
the back of the book
there was
a guaranteed happy
ending of some sort-
win the war
get the girl
even when tragic
what makes me laugh now
is how comic it all was
predictably meaningful
(oh, so meaningful)
resolutions.
now no one and
nothing
comes when i call
and if sentences make sense
it's because
they are tasteless and flat
and to the degree that they don't
it's because
they approximate truth
("truth")
with no subject-verb agreements
and the tense changing midway and
no one quite getting the point
(particularly me).
so now i sweep
through the dust
arrange it in lines
to gather
or, in a fit,
make clouds
that irritate the passages:
just to get some
kind of reaction.
[so now i sweep
the streets i
used to own]
dead horse
don't quite know
what's wrong with me
but the usual
motivations
won't work
the gun and
all the people
shouting and
pointing,
the whip and
the sting and,
yes, even the carrot
might as well slap
and dangle on
Sysiphus's rock.
and these marionette
movements
are wobbling me
off the track again
rudely into neighbors
even in the wrong direction
odd.
and when i
should
Should
SHOULD
be thirsty
i won't drink
i seem more
interested
in falling down
and apart
and tracing the
arcs of green bottle
flies that seem
to have become
steady company of late,
how they lick me
and leave me
how they gassho
respectfully
rub their little hands
and drool.
it's quite entertaining
actually.
i wonder how
tightly and longly
the ground
can hold me down
today.
what's wrong with me
but the usual
motivations
won't work
the gun and
all the people
shouting and
pointing,
the whip and
the sting and,
yes, even the carrot
might as well slap
and dangle on
Sysiphus's rock.
and these marionette
movements
are wobbling me
off the track again
rudely into neighbors
even in the wrong direction
odd.
and when i
should
Should
SHOULD
be thirsty
i won't drink
i seem more
interested
in falling down
and apart
and tracing the
arcs of green bottle
flies that seem
to have become
steady company of late,
how they lick me
and leave me
how they gassho
respectfully
rub their little hands
and drool.
it's quite entertaining
actually.
i wonder how
tightly and longly
the ground
can hold me down
today.
on pins
there won't be another moment
another quite like this
but unique needles
have only so much room
to stab a pincushion heart
and so soon
we're "grown up"
we've learned the system
we're faded and jaded
sewn an old hat
to cover our pate
protect it
from enlightenment
inspiration
and other possible injuries.
and when we feel it
by some
inadvertent slip
we can only think
of life as a prick
the world is such a prick!
and we bandaid it away
so we can forget again
how to feel.
another quite like this
but unique needles
have only so much room
to stab a pincushion heart
and so soon
we're "grown up"
we've learned the system
we're faded and jaded
sewn an old hat
to cover our pate
protect it
from enlightenment
inspiration
and other possible injuries.
and when we feel it
by some
inadvertent slip
we can only think
of life as a prick
the world is such a prick!
and we bandaid it away
so we can forget again
how to feel.
Monday, May 26, 2008
arrogance
the path, it's said
begins where things are dead
all living's been cleared away
stepped on enough
to convince even weeds
to grow somewhere else
if i must begin then
i must learn to be something in kind
spurn all the growing things
and become like dirt
the abject and
the lowly
what's washed off
but mindlessly
thoughtlessly
stepped on
i must become a space
cleared of anything
that would obscure me
(no, excuse me,
that would obscure YOU)
life teach me
care for me
walk me endlessly
that i remain an open path
for you
YOU
to find your way.
begins where things are dead
all living's been cleared away
stepped on enough
to convince even weeds
to grow somewhere else
if i must begin then
i must learn to be something in kind
spurn all the growing things
and become like dirt
the abject and
the lowly
what's washed off
but mindlessly
thoughtlessly
stepped on
i must become a space
cleared of anything
that would obscure me
(no, excuse me,
that would obscure YOU)
life teach me
care for me
walk me endlessly
that i remain an open path
for you
YOU
to find your way.
pedantic
i'm just learning how
to be a human being
still just learning
the possibilities
are endless
though most especially
towards the ground
i guess it's true
gravity makes the
world go round
each step i place
i hope will find
something beneath
but then again
but then again
i know at times
as human beings
we must learn
to walk on
more insubstantial things
often to walk
completely alone
in darkness and
in the wrong direction
without guarantees
that we'll arrive
without guarantees
that we'll arrive
so i'm placing each step
so carefully
sometimes on earth
sometimes on your foot
sometimes on water
sometimes on air
be patient with me
please be patient with me
i'm still just learning
learning how to be
a human being.
to be a human being
still just learning
the possibilities
are endless
though most especially
towards the ground
i guess it's true
gravity makes the
world go round
each step i place
i hope will find
something beneath
but then again
but then again
i know at times
as human beings
we must learn
to walk on
more insubstantial things
often to walk
completely alone
in darkness and
in the wrong direction
without guarantees
that we'll arrive
without guarantees
that we'll arrive
so i'm placing each step
so carefully
sometimes on earth
sometimes on your foot
sometimes on water
sometimes on air
be patient with me
please be patient with me
i'm still just learning
learning how to be
a human being.
from sharit, for memorial day
shari tamashiro sent me this, which i send to you...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mt85ShJGgqI
On this Memorial Day. . .we remember.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v
On this Memorial Day. . .we remember.
[Excerpt from a memorial address given by Chaplain Israel Yost to the 100th Infantry Battalion, October 1947.]
Once, over there, four men came slowly up a trail along which was strewn the debris of war. Our soldiers had fallen, wounded or dead, along that path, dropping rations and arms and equipment in agony or haste. The four were carrying a dead comrade on a litter. It was not so much the weight of their burden as it was the weight of the sorrow in their hearts that made them tread so slowly on their way. Toward them came a lone soldier, of a different division and of a different race (though American). When he noticed the funeral procession he stopped, stepped off the path, removed his helmet, and stood with bowed head as the men bore the dead past him. I shall never forget how that white soldier of the 45th Division took time to honor one of our dead AJAs; in reverence he stepped off the road to let the dead pass by.
Once again today, as is our custom, we step off the road to let our dead pass by. Each of us will be thinking especially about his own dear son, or husband, or brother, or relative, or friend.
. . .
Now, you who were members of the 100th, pick out from the ranks of the dead, your own beloved friend. You knew him as a lad, you played with him, and hiked and swam and schooled. He marched with you and sailed with you across the seas. He had the same dislikes and loves as you. He showed you pictures of his girl, or wife and child. He wasn't always sure the higher-ups directed right. . .but in his most sincere of hours he thrilled at all the things for which our nation stands. He planned for all the things we now enjoy, and often said he knew that we would carry on if he should not return. Oh, comrade of our honored dead – or wife, or Dad, or Mom, or sister dear, or brother – all of you who are his kin and bound to him as friends –
when you begin to slide through life instead of climbing.
when you begin to harm instead of helping,
when you begin to curse God instead of praying,
when you being to feel that life is for the one who thinks of self-alone. . .
then pause a while, step off the road, and let the gold-starred soul of your
beloved pass by.
Then, can you break faith with the dead?
. . .
Those worthy soldier-dead need not our words of praise today. They need none of our gold for statues to their fame. They only ask that we keep faith with them, that we shall ne'er forget that they have died with hopes of making this old world a bit more like the place of peace God planned it for.
What if we fail, and live for self, and oft forget to champion right against the powerful wrong? What if we break the faith with these our dead? Then they would beg that we forget mistakes and try again. They know, and we know in our hearts, that is was easier to die upon the battlefield for right than to live day in and day out according to the best within us. That's why it is good for us to hold such services year after year – to bolster up and encourage us to live up to the standards they set by their deaths.
I believe they would even bid us not to mourn for them, for they know that we the living have the harder task of daily fighting on for what is right and good and kind. I know they will forgive us when we fail, if only we will try again to quit ourselves like men fighting for that for which they gave their lives.
When soulless men our high ideals defy,
When our fond hopes and visions start to die,
When selfishness engulfs, let's, you and I,
Step off the road to let the dead pass by.
When human wrongs for right to heaven cry,
If for ideals you e'en may have to die,
To keep your aims in life clean-cut and high,
Step off the road to let the dead pass by.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
wii
so lynn got our family a wii when she went to nyc. i haven't opened the box yet. frankly, i'm afraid of the thing. i know what a crazy game addict i can be. back in the day, i would consume whole weekends playing games (with maybe enough hours of sleep to count on one hand). and right now, i can't afford to be that way. not with all my responsibilities. not with my kids.
speaking of my kids, i am also afraid of the deleterious influence the wii could have on them.
on a side note: this is my opinion (may piss off some parents i know): DON'T GIVE YOUR KIDS THOSE STUPID HAND HELD VIDEO GAMES (nintendo ds, whatever). i can't stand it when i go to a party or something, and instead of the children interacting and socializing and running around, they are sullen-looking until they get the chance to sneak off into a corner and play their games. i mean, come on!!! what are you thinking, getting your kids a hand held myopia-generator (both in terms of physical eyesight and "cultural eyesight")?
[what a hypocrit (sp?) i am in saying this; back in the day, i was such a rpg person. but at least i kept my grades up...]
anyway, with regards to the wii... at least it seems to have: 1) a more physical component; and 2) a social component. if nothing else, it's entertaining at parties.
but... i'm not touching the thing until i think my life has stabilized somewhat...
speaking of my kids, i am also afraid of the deleterious influence the wii could have on them.
on a side note: this is my opinion (may piss off some parents i know): DON'T GIVE YOUR KIDS THOSE STUPID HAND HELD VIDEO GAMES (nintendo ds, whatever). i can't stand it when i go to a party or something, and instead of the children interacting and socializing and running around, they are sullen-looking until they get the chance to sneak off into a corner and play their games. i mean, come on!!! what are you thinking, getting your kids a hand held myopia-generator (both in terms of physical eyesight and "cultural eyesight")?
[what a hypocrit (sp?) i am in saying this; back in the day, i was such a rpg person. but at least i kept my grades up...]
anyway, with regards to the wii... at least it seems to have: 1) a more physical component; and 2) a social component. if nothing else, it's entertaining at parties.
but... i'm not touching the thing until i think my life has stabilized somewhat...
Friday, May 23, 2008
ancient chinese secret
while i'm talking about acupuncture, pt, and other alt health stuff (and while i'm pissing people off), let me make a comment about "proprietary secrets." there are a lot of people (acupuncturists, massage therapists, whatever) who, when you ask them, what sort of acupuncture/bodywork/etc. that they do, will quote something really obscure. like maybe me, who says, "kiiko matsumoto style acupuncture." and then people are like "whoa, that sounds pretty heavy..." if you persist in asking questions, like, well, what does that mean, or what's the foundation for what you do, etc. the practitioner will usually end up answering something like:
"i learned it from my teacher who was a master, and was third in the lineage of this ancient teaching... and the first master, the originator of the style, he learned it after he traveled to the summit of one of the kun lun mountains and meditated for 30 weeks, yes, 30 weeks, eating nothing but the farts of clouds and pine cones."
(this, by the way, is also how martial artists respond when you ask them about THEIR style.)
"ancient chinese secret."
pshaw.
honestly, i think it's counter-productive to pretend you know something you don't. i don't profess to be an expert at anything. but if you ask me what style i practice, i will tell you. and if you ask me something i don't know, i'll tell you, i don't know, or i haven't really experienced that. and if you ask me why i do something, i'll say, "it's done in this style," or "tcm theory says so," or even "i don't know."
but what i will NOT say is: "ancient chinese secret."
and, at acupuncture school, i'm more than happy to teach people what little i know (my perspective). it's what i've learned in my few years of treating people. maybe it will give others a "jump start" or something. or maybe students will think i'm an idiot, and do their own thing.
point is: don't pretend you've got a secret.
i know a lot of practitioners claim they're "in the know" just to protect themselves... they don't want people to know how afraid they are, or they don't want students to become better than they are. some of those fears are valid. but why hide? nothing changes (you don't get any better by it), and besides, people can TELL. just do your thing, you've got nothing to be ashamed of, and if you do it well, even if you teach people, it's not like they're going to be able to do it as well as you on the first shot. and even if they do, well, it's like you're investing in your profession for the future.
"ancient chinese secret."
whatever.
"i learned it from my teacher who was a master, and was third in the lineage of this ancient teaching... and the first master, the originator of the style, he learned it after he traveled to the summit of one of the kun lun mountains and meditated for 30 weeks, yes, 30 weeks, eating nothing but the farts of clouds and pine cones."
(this, by the way, is also how martial artists respond when you ask them about THEIR style.)
"ancient chinese secret."
pshaw.
honestly, i think it's counter-productive to pretend you know something you don't. i don't profess to be an expert at anything. but if you ask me what style i practice, i will tell you. and if you ask me something i don't know, i'll tell you, i don't know, or i haven't really experienced that. and if you ask me why i do something, i'll say, "it's done in this style," or "tcm theory says so," or even "i don't know."
but what i will NOT say is: "ancient chinese secret."
and, at acupuncture school, i'm more than happy to teach people what little i know (my perspective). it's what i've learned in my few years of treating people. maybe it will give others a "jump start" or something. or maybe students will think i'm an idiot, and do their own thing.
point is: don't pretend you've got a secret.
i know a lot of practitioners claim they're "in the know" just to protect themselves... they don't want people to know how afraid they are, or they don't want students to become better than they are. some of those fears are valid. but why hide? nothing changes (you don't get any better by it), and besides, people can TELL. just do your thing, you've got nothing to be ashamed of, and if you do it well, even if you teach people, it's not like they're going to be able to do it as well as you on the first shot. and even if they do, well, it's like you're investing in your profession for the future.
"ancient chinese secret."
whatever.
i will piss some people off...!
okay, since the last post was about acupuncture... let me make a comment about certain practices in "physical therapy." i have nothing against physical therapy per se, and i know that at times they achieve remarkable results. but one practice i am philosophically against is what is called "isolytic stretching." that is, it is a stretch that goes to the natural barrier (the pain threshold) and (like buzz lightyear says) BEYOND! thus, it "lyses" (breaks/cuts/TEARS) the bound muscle tissue.
i have heard SEVERAL times that patients experience the WORST pain of their lives during such isolytic stretch treatment sessions... patients mention that they actually see STARS. and, almost invariably, the area stretched feels worse, to the point of becoming incapacitated. for example, one patient being "treated" for frozen shoulder couldn't even MOVE her arm after one session.
i often treat patients who are simultaneously going through physical therapy. and it really frustrates me when i accomplish a measure of release, and then the next time i see them, they are worse than before (because, in the interim, they saw their pt).
let me attempt to explain why isolytic stretching is inadvisable.
muscles have their own intelligence. if you attempt to either stretch a muscle or load a muscle beyond its capacity, then the muscle will react in a manner to protect itself from TEARING. it goes into a state of spasm. knots (trigger points/ashi points) form in the muscle to shorten it.
this is an ENTIRELY NORMAL and appropriate response.
things become problematic when the muscle doesn't release afterwards. then, treatment interventions become necessary. the trick (problem) is that the muscle still THINKS that it is in a threatening situation, and will NOT release unless it is convinced otherwise.
one option is to try to SPECIFICALLY work out the knots (via trigger point therapy, acupuncture). while this can be painful, because it is specific, it tends to release the muscle little by little, in the same way that unknotting a rope will gradually bring more length to it.
stretching can also work, to a limited degree, but only if it is gradual and within bounds. gentle stretching is like coaxing a muscle to re-experience length in a non-threatening way.
there are also neat "tricks" to bypass the muscle's guarding mechanisms. two "trends" are orthobionomy (also known as strain/counterstrain or fold and hold) and muscle energy techniques (also known as pnf or post-isometric-relaxation [???] stretching). these trends take advantage of natural reflexes built into the muscle to bypass the pain/guarding mechanisms, AND are generally painless (away from pain) in themselves.
isolytic stretching, on the other hand, is counterproductive. it disrespects the body's natural intelligence; it in fact "rapes" the problematic muscle. the muscle (once traumatized) doesn't want to stretch; but isolytic stretching ignores the PTSD encoded in the muscle, and just REINTRODUCES trauma to it... how is that therapeutic IN ANY WAY???
i know i'm going to piss some people off, notably pts. again, i admire a lot of pts, and their work. i'm just voicing a critique of a particular technique. please please think about it, if you are a pt, or if you are seeing a pt, or if you are injured (musculoskeletal). does any of this make sense?
i have heard SEVERAL times that patients experience the WORST pain of their lives during such isolytic stretch treatment sessions... patients mention that they actually see STARS. and, almost invariably, the area stretched feels worse, to the point of becoming incapacitated. for example, one patient being "treated" for frozen shoulder couldn't even MOVE her arm after one session.
i often treat patients who are simultaneously going through physical therapy. and it really frustrates me when i accomplish a measure of release, and then the next time i see them, they are worse than before (because, in the interim, they saw their pt).
let me attempt to explain why isolytic stretching is inadvisable.
muscles have their own intelligence. if you attempt to either stretch a muscle or load a muscle beyond its capacity, then the muscle will react in a manner to protect itself from TEARING. it goes into a state of spasm. knots (trigger points/ashi points) form in the muscle to shorten it.
this is an ENTIRELY NORMAL and appropriate response.
things become problematic when the muscle doesn't release afterwards. then, treatment interventions become necessary. the trick (problem) is that the muscle still THINKS that it is in a threatening situation, and will NOT release unless it is convinced otherwise.
one option is to try to SPECIFICALLY work out the knots (via trigger point therapy, acupuncture). while this can be painful, because it is specific, it tends to release the muscle little by little, in the same way that unknotting a rope will gradually bring more length to it.
stretching can also work, to a limited degree, but only if it is gradual and within bounds. gentle stretching is like coaxing a muscle to re-experience length in a non-threatening way.
there are also neat "tricks" to bypass the muscle's guarding mechanisms. two "trends" are orthobionomy (also known as strain/counterstrain or fold and hold) and muscle energy techniques (also known as pnf or post-isometric-relaxation [???] stretching). these trends take advantage of natural reflexes built into the muscle to bypass the pain/guarding mechanisms, AND are generally painless (away from pain) in themselves.
isolytic stretching, on the other hand, is counterproductive. it disrespects the body's natural intelligence; it in fact "rapes" the problematic muscle. the muscle (once traumatized) doesn't want to stretch; but isolytic stretching ignores the PTSD encoded in the muscle, and just REINTRODUCES trauma to it... how is that therapeutic IN ANY WAY???
i know i'm going to piss some people off, notably pts. again, i admire a lot of pts, and their work. i'm just voicing a critique of a particular technique. please please think about it, if you are a pt, or if you are seeing a pt, or if you are injured (musculoskeletal). does any of this make sense?
a "tip" for acupuncturists: use hinaishin! and others...
there are two primary types of intradermal needles used AFTER a treatment (and retained for up to two weeks): hinaishin and empi-ishin. hinaishin are intended to be inserted flat to the skin, and taped over with a small square of adhesive. empi-ishin, on the other hand, while just as tiny as hinaishin, are inserted perpendicularly, like tiny thumb tacks.
i opt for the hinaishin, because they do not cause any significant irritation, and patients can usually do all of their normal activities without "feeling" the needles. the disadvantage of ALL intradermals is that bathing, etc. tends to wear the adhesive out, and thus, shorten the time of needle retention...
but HONESTLY, it doesn't matter.
the results of hinaishin use are dramatic to me. i treat patients primarily for musculoskeletal problems. while standard needling (and moxibustion, and whatever other modalities i opt for) is effective, i was always confronted by the problem of maintaining the continuity of the treatment effect for patients. i mean, i would spend an hour (sometimes more) to achieve some measure of release, and then the patient would go off and "live life" (implying some kind of, unfortunately, abuse to their injury) and then i would see him/her the following week, and it would be back to square one (or worse). i wanted something that would "keep working," if you will, such that at successive treatments, real progress could be made to accomplishing goals.
i'd used hinaishin before, but i couldn't understand why they worked (still don't, not really). i mean, they are inserted FLAT, but for many problems, notably in the hip/buttocks region, the problematic muscle/ligament/tendon tissue is VERY DEEP. how can applying a hinaishin over a deep trigger point accomplish any measure of release? honestly, i still don't know. it's like you're fishing for deep sea anglers by casting your line out at the shorebreak.
but it works. i've been using the hinaishin so much now that i run out of them before my standard needles. after performing a standard treatment (needles, moxa, etc.) i do a little tui na. the tui na is partially to reinforce the effects of the acupuncture, but also helps me to identify the remaining stubborn trigger points (ashi). i then insert hinaishin into those points. miraculously (!), by the next treatment, most of those points have released, and are PAINLESS. this, no matter how deep the trigger points may have been! of course, in a lot of complex cases, notably sacroiliac joint dysfunctions (which involve several disparate regions: low back, iliopsoas, legs, etc.) you accomplish release of one area, and other problems "pop up"; but at least you feel like you are progressing towards a fuller release, because it is like the body is slowly adjusting itself to full release. each successive "pain pattern" is merely the new "adjustment point" of the body. frankly, performing treatments in this way is educational and interesting for me, because it reveals a lot about the natural mechanics and compensatory patterns of the body.
... it's funny. i make these announcements at the school about what i've learned, and no one seems to pay much attention. there is a real stubbornness about following "traditional" approaches (like: i've got to make this work, because the book says to do it this way!). while there is merit to this approach, the ultimate confirmation is in treatment results. theory matters little unless it reveals itself "appropriate" (i.e. successful) in practice. if theory helps you to understand successful/unsuccessful results, then it is valid. if it only confuses you, or makes you impotent, then shuck it!
currently, i am more of a trigger point person. i sometimes don't even follow local-distal treatment models, because distal points at times seem irrelevant. sacrilege and blasphemy, i know, but i try to find what works, and what i can understand.
the other system i try to follow (although it is wonderfully complex) is kiiko matsumoto style. no other practitioner attempts to mediate traditional ideas (from nan jing, nei jing, ling shu) with modern scientific thought. she once explained the use of gb 22 (on the side of the ribs) in treating tinnitus by referring to embryological studies of FISH; apparently, the same cells that develop into the hair cells within humans develop into the sides (near gills) of fish. again, nice theory, but ultimate confirmation is in treatment results. but i like her valiant attempts. i tend to use kiiko style for more "internal" problems.
traditional chinese medicine, with its emphasis on zang fu diagnosis, seems ill-suited for acupuncture. in fact, it has been said many times that the diagnostic model adopted in tcm schools is more appropriate for herbalism (i.e., the "herbalism of acupuncture"). i think zang fu diagnosis (and most other diagnostic models in tcm) is best in prescribing appropriate herbal formulas...
i opt for the hinaishin, because they do not cause any significant irritation, and patients can usually do all of their normal activities without "feeling" the needles. the disadvantage of ALL intradermals is that bathing, etc. tends to wear the adhesive out, and thus, shorten the time of needle retention...
but HONESTLY, it doesn't matter.
the results of hinaishin use are dramatic to me. i treat patients primarily for musculoskeletal problems. while standard needling (and moxibustion, and whatever other modalities i opt for) is effective, i was always confronted by the problem of maintaining the continuity of the treatment effect for patients. i mean, i would spend an hour (sometimes more) to achieve some measure of release, and then the patient would go off and "live life" (implying some kind of, unfortunately, abuse to their injury) and then i would see him/her the following week, and it would be back to square one (or worse). i wanted something that would "keep working," if you will, such that at successive treatments, real progress could be made to accomplishing goals.
i'd used hinaishin before, but i couldn't understand why they worked (still don't, not really). i mean, they are inserted FLAT, but for many problems, notably in the hip/buttocks region, the problematic muscle/ligament/tendon tissue is VERY DEEP. how can applying a hinaishin over a deep trigger point accomplish any measure of release? honestly, i still don't know. it's like you're fishing for deep sea anglers by casting your line out at the shorebreak.
but it works. i've been using the hinaishin so much now that i run out of them before my standard needles. after performing a standard treatment (needles, moxa, etc.) i do a little tui na. the tui na is partially to reinforce the effects of the acupuncture, but also helps me to identify the remaining stubborn trigger points (ashi). i then insert hinaishin into those points. miraculously (!), by the next treatment, most of those points have released, and are PAINLESS. this, no matter how deep the trigger points may have been! of course, in a lot of complex cases, notably sacroiliac joint dysfunctions (which involve several disparate regions: low back, iliopsoas, legs, etc.) you accomplish release of one area, and other problems "pop up"; but at least you feel like you are progressing towards a fuller release, because it is like the body is slowly adjusting itself to full release. each successive "pain pattern" is merely the new "adjustment point" of the body. frankly, performing treatments in this way is educational and interesting for me, because it reveals a lot about the natural mechanics and compensatory patterns of the body.
... it's funny. i make these announcements at the school about what i've learned, and no one seems to pay much attention. there is a real stubbornness about following "traditional" approaches (like: i've got to make this work, because the book says to do it this way!). while there is merit to this approach, the ultimate confirmation is in treatment results. theory matters little unless it reveals itself "appropriate" (i.e. successful) in practice. if theory helps you to understand successful/unsuccessful results, then it is valid. if it only confuses you, or makes you impotent, then shuck it!
currently, i am more of a trigger point person. i sometimes don't even follow local-distal treatment models, because distal points at times seem irrelevant. sacrilege and blasphemy, i know, but i try to find what works, and what i can understand.
the other system i try to follow (although it is wonderfully complex) is kiiko matsumoto style. no other practitioner attempts to mediate traditional ideas (from nan jing, nei jing, ling shu) with modern scientific thought. she once explained the use of gb 22 (on the side of the ribs) in treating tinnitus by referring to embryological studies of FISH; apparently, the same cells that develop into the hair cells within humans develop into the sides (near gills) of fish. again, nice theory, but ultimate confirmation is in treatment results. but i like her valiant attempts. i tend to use kiiko style for more "internal" problems.
traditional chinese medicine, with its emphasis on zang fu diagnosis, seems ill-suited for acupuncture. in fact, it has been said many times that the diagnostic model adopted in tcm schools is more appropriate for herbalism (i.e., the "herbalism of acupuncture"). i think zang fu diagnosis (and most other diagnostic models in tcm) is best in prescribing appropriate herbal formulas...
Thursday, May 22, 2008
pictures of kipapa gulch
This was the view "across" the valley. Wish you could appreciate the depth in this pic...
This was another pic looking into the valley... You can see part of the chalk-rock ridgeline.
This was a pic looking north towards the Koolau mountains.
journey in, journey out
my friend cliff will visit soon (less than a week), and he was interested in revisiting some of the places we used to explore "back in the day." so this afternoon, i checked some of them out.
kipapa gulch is very different from twenty years ago. for one thing, there is this developed region called mililani mauka (where i happen to live) sitting on what used to be pineapple fields and open grassland. i recall that one of our access points, in fact, the most important one (the koa acacia tree) was somewhere behind the water tanks, i just wasn't sure at what "angle," or how far exactly. there are now a bunch of high class houses between the water tank and the gulch. i felt, quite frankly, extremely paranoid.
there are "access ways" into the lip of the valley, spaces between yards and such. but in all of them, there are posted, just to be absolutely clear and unambiguous, "NO TRESPASSING" signs. the first one intimidated me, so i went to the next culdesac, a bit over. for some reason, that second one didn't seem so scary.
these access ways are covered in weedelia. i went through one corridor, and soon found myself at the lip of the gulch. it was hard to see anything, much less recognize anything, because there was a border of wild california grass obscuring my vision. (same as when we first went there). so i had to edge around, all the while trying to seem quiet and innocent (dogs barking in backyards, the hum of air conditioners).
at one point, someone illegally had planted a garden all the way to the lip of the gulch, AND put a chicken wire fence around it. turns out i could've found a way around the fence, but i wasn't looking, so i instead went DOWN into the gulch.
let me tell you, it wasn't exactly smooth sailing going down. the ground drops off precipitously, and in places, very very dangerously. i had to grasp roots, step obliquely, etc. all the while passing through some very tight underbrush. but then, i emerged on a strangely flat plane.
it appears that, in constructing the houses, castle and cooke decided to dump all the displaced earth into the gulch, creating a sort of "wild field." i mean, it is very flat, but all this wild grass and stuff is growing there. honestly, if someone wanted to, they could just landscape it and have a pretty large park there. as it was, the ground was kinda muddy, and i got a bit paranoid looking at some of the large tracks that i sometimes crossed. i kept thinking i'd see some large wild boars, or, worse, a wild pit bull or something.
the view grew grander. i could see in places that the gulch was both deeper and more overgrown (primarily with iron woods and albizzia trees) than i had remembered.
i had to scale back up at one point, to get back to the weedelia lip so that i could get a better view (i wasn't about to get deeper into the gulch when i wasn't sure if there'd be a convenient way back up). this was also rough, perhaps even rougher than the "fall" down. i had to grab roots and branches, this time to "lift me" up, and let me tell you, some of those roots and branches were rotted through; they practically fell apart with a touch. anyway, i eventually got back up.
the view was pretty spectacular. i started to recognize some traces of places. for example, there was a steep chalk rock ridgeline; i recall that being part of the steep path that led down from the koa acacia tree. but it didn't rise up to any tree that i recognizes. nevertheless, it was really beautiful, spectacular even.
i will post pictures as soon as i can upload them.
at present, i believe the tree is gone. the region i ended up in (the houses) were much higher than the "baseline" of the lip of the gulch; the landscapers must have elevated the ground level there, and in the process, "covered up" the tree. that's my guess anyway.
or, the access point i knew is further ahead than i dared to venture.
oh well.
for a few minutes (i was only out for about 30-40 min), i felt young again: dirty, sweaty, with black bugs on all the smelly parts of my body...
kipapa gulch is very different from twenty years ago. for one thing, there is this developed region called mililani mauka (where i happen to live) sitting on what used to be pineapple fields and open grassland. i recall that one of our access points, in fact, the most important one (the koa acacia tree) was somewhere behind the water tanks, i just wasn't sure at what "angle," or how far exactly. there are now a bunch of high class houses between the water tank and the gulch. i felt, quite frankly, extremely paranoid.
there are "access ways" into the lip of the valley, spaces between yards and such. but in all of them, there are posted, just to be absolutely clear and unambiguous, "NO TRESPASSING" signs. the first one intimidated me, so i went to the next culdesac, a bit over. for some reason, that second one didn't seem so scary.
these access ways are covered in weedelia. i went through one corridor, and soon found myself at the lip of the gulch. it was hard to see anything, much less recognize anything, because there was a border of wild california grass obscuring my vision. (same as when we first went there). so i had to edge around, all the while trying to seem quiet and innocent (dogs barking in backyards, the hum of air conditioners).
at one point, someone illegally had planted a garden all the way to the lip of the gulch, AND put a chicken wire fence around it. turns out i could've found a way around the fence, but i wasn't looking, so i instead went DOWN into the gulch.
let me tell you, it wasn't exactly smooth sailing going down. the ground drops off precipitously, and in places, very very dangerously. i had to grasp roots, step obliquely, etc. all the while passing through some very tight underbrush. but then, i emerged on a strangely flat plane.
it appears that, in constructing the houses, castle and cooke decided to dump all the displaced earth into the gulch, creating a sort of "wild field." i mean, it is very flat, but all this wild grass and stuff is growing there. honestly, if someone wanted to, they could just landscape it and have a pretty large park there. as it was, the ground was kinda muddy, and i got a bit paranoid looking at some of the large tracks that i sometimes crossed. i kept thinking i'd see some large wild boars, or, worse, a wild pit bull or something.
the view grew grander. i could see in places that the gulch was both deeper and more overgrown (primarily with iron woods and albizzia trees) than i had remembered.
i had to scale back up at one point, to get back to the weedelia lip so that i could get a better view (i wasn't about to get deeper into the gulch when i wasn't sure if there'd be a convenient way back up). this was also rough, perhaps even rougher than the "fall" down. i had to grab roots and branches, this time to "lift me" up, and let me tell you, some of those roots and branches were rotted through; they practically fell apart with a touch. anyway, i eventually got back up.
the view was pretty spectacular. i started to recognize some traces of places. for example, there was a steep chalk rock ridgeline; i recall that being part of the steep path that led down from the koa acacia tree. but it didn't rise up to any tree that i recognizes. nevertheless, it was really beautiful, spectacular even.
i will post pictures as soon as i can upload them.
at present, i believe the tree is gone. the region i ended up in (the houses) were much higher than the "baseline" of the lip of the gulch; the landscapers must have elevated the ground level there, and in the process, "covered up" the tree. that's my guess anyway.
or, the access point i knew is further ahead than i dared to venture.
oh well.
for a few minutes (i was only out for about 30-40 min), i felt young again: dirty, sweaty, with black bugs on all the smelly parts of my body...
my new favorite word
my new favorite word is: (da-da-da-dum) "bewilder"
as in, don't be wild, bewilder.
hahaha.
(you're supposed to laugh)
as in, don't be wild, bewilder.
hahaha.
(you're supposed to laugh)
mililani turns the big 4-0
lynn saw this "contest" in the mililani ka nupepa. mililani is turning 40, and they wanted submissions about what mililani "means." i would point directly to my blog, but it's pretty subversive and negative stuff. i think they want happier fare. draw more flies into the web.
nevertheless, i made my attempt. apparently, people like it. they may actually print it, i don't know. it's honest, it's true, and it doesn't compromise my ambiguous perspective concerning the town. and (most importantly) it's under 300 words.
i'd save it for the publication, but since most of you (nonexistent readers) don't even live in the area, you'd likely NEVER see it. so here it is, in all its worthless glory:
Submission for: Mililani’s 40th Birthday
By: Randy Otaka
Working Title: Mid-life Memories of Mililani
I was born and raised in Mililani Town.
I also currently live in Mililani Mauka.
The juxtaposition of these two facts sometimes bewilders me.
Let me explain.
I consider myself a typical product of this “first planned community,” and, like others in my generation, felt a strange mix of good fortune and restlessness living in Mililani. Good fortune because I knew I had it good: I lived in a clean town with great schools and swimming pools to while away summer afternoons. And restlessness, because, despite all of this, I wanted more.
My adolescent friends and I, weary of zigzagging the length of the town, continually sought “out-roads” to the wilderness at Mililani’s peripheries. We followed irrigation canals, rain-drainage canals, and even that largest “canal,” Kipapa Gulch, searching for “life” in our red-soiled world.
On one such venture, my friend Cliff and I discovered a small carseat at the base of a acacia tree, looking out onto Kipapa Gulch. It was a mile or so north of the then border of Mililani Town (the gate at the end of Meheula Parkway), deep in pineapple fields, just behind a couple of squat water tanks.
I recall us sitting at the base of that tree, telling larger-than-life stories and making absurd promises (as adolescents are wont to do). Our words fell off the edge into the gulch, like coins into a wishing well.
Not long after that day, Cliff moved away, and soon after that, so did I.
Now, almost two decades later, I’m back. I live in a house in Mauka, not far from the water tanks and the very tree where I’d spat challenges into my tomorrows.
Maybe those challenges have landed where I am today. Happy, bewildered, thinking:
how far I’ve gone, only to return home.
-end-
nevertheless, i made my attempt. apparently, people like it. they may actually print it, i don't know. it's honest, it's true, and it doesn't compromise my ambiguous perspective concerning the town. and (most importantly) it's under 300 words.
i'd save it for the publication, but since most of you (nonexistent readers) don't even live in the area, you'd likely NEVER see it. so here it is, in all its worthless glory:
Submission for: Mililani’s 40th Birthday
By: Randy Otaka
Working Title: Mid-life Memories of Mililani
I was born and raised in Mililani Town.
I also currently live in Mililani Mauka.
The juxtaposition of these two facts sometimes bewilders me.
Let me explain.
I consider myself a typical product of this “first planned community,” and, like others in my generation, felt a strange mix of good fortune and restlessness living in Mililani. Good fortune because I knew I had it good: I lived in a clean town with great schools and swimming pools to while away summer afternoons. And restlessness, because, despite all of this, I wanted more.
My adolescent friends and I, weary of zigzagging the length of the town, continually sought “out-roads” to the wilderness at Mililani’s peripheries. We followed irrigation canals, rain-drainage canals, and even that largest “canal,” Kipapa Gulch, searching for “life” in our red-soiled world.
On one such venture, my friend Cliff and I discovered a small carseat at the base of a acacia tree, looking out onto Kipapa Gulch. It was a mile or so north of the then border of Mililani Town (the gate at the end of Meheula Parkway), deep in pineapple fields, just behind a couple of squat water tanks.
I recall us sitting at the base of that tree, telling larger-than-life stories and making absurd promises (as adolescents are wont to do). Our words fell off the edge into the gulch, like coins into a wishing well.
Not long after that day, Cliff moved away, and soon after that, so did I.
Now, almost two decades later, I’m back. I live in a house in Mauka, not far from the water tanks and the very tree where I’d spat challenges into my tomorrows.
Maybe those challenges have landed where I am today. Happy, bewildered, thinking:
how far I’ve gone, only to return home.
-end-
i can't stop i can't begin
apparently, classes (both uh and icaom) begin NEXT WEEK. who knew? certainly not i. but to stay on this track to nowhere, i've got to be nimble and jump on the moving platform. keep moving, little jumpman, or you're going to lose the chance for a bonus round...
i'm so-o-o tired. not physically necessarily (although there have been moments when i could feel myself literally passing out standing). more mentally. a part of me is constantly aware of what needs to be done, but it hasn't found a way to make me care. not to say that i don't do anything, but each little task is imbued with an inordinate amount of effort. like focusing the world's resources to move a pebble.
my mind strays to useless diversions. like this. this stupid blog that NOBODY reads, and less than nobody responds to. what is the point of it all? it is nothing but the recording of the squeaks of a hamster going round and round on his exercise wheel... nothing new but hey, i'm LOSING WEIGHT!!! yippy.
willow and aiden are my only bright spots, my only solace (lynn is gone on a business trip to nyc, and thus i'm particularly lonely and filled with ennui [look it up! a real word, overused by nasally williams college students!], having no one to NOT listen to me...).
i did the perfunctory violin lessons with the kids this evening. it's an exercise in patience, both for me and for them, but we managed to go through them without me blowing up. they're actually doing remarkably well; and, strangely enough, i worry when they are being too obedient, like i have somehow cowed their naturally independent spirits... is this what education is like? is this what education should be like? at times, i don't know... but in any case, whether i'm cruel or laissez faire about them, it's all LOVE, right? hope they realize it.
i've got to ground myself. we only move via our resistance to this earth. did you know that? without pushing off the ground, we can't go anywhere. right now, i'm practicing antigravity, floating in dreams and other purposeless mental loops. soon enough, i'm going to have to "bring myself down" and get back to business.
i want to, i don't want to.
how can i put it?
all in all, i suppose i am so tired, as soul asylum puts it, "that i couldn't even sleep."
no rest for the wicked, i guess.
sweet dreams to y'all (or, more likely, y'none).
i'm so-o-o tired. not physically necessarily (although there have been moments when i could feel myself literally passing out standing). more mentally. a part of me is constantly aware of what needs to be done, but it hasn't found a way to make me care. not to say that i don't do anything, but each little task is imbued with an inordinate amount of effort. like focusing the world's resources to move a pebble.
my mind strays to useless diversions. like this. this stupid blog that NOBODY reads, and less than nobody responds to. what is the point of it all? it is nothing but the recording of the squeaks of a hamster going round and round on his exercise wheel... nothing new but hey, i'm LOSING WEIGHT!!! yippy.
willow and aiden are my only bright spots, my only solace (lynn is gone on a business trip to nyc, and thus i'm particularly lonely and filled with ennui [look it up! a real word, overused by nasally williams college students!], having no one to NOT listen to me...).
i did the perfunctory violin lessons with the kids this evening. it's an exercise in patience, both for me and for them, but we managed to go through them without me blowing up. they're actually doing remarkably well; and, strangely enough, i worry when they are being too obedient, like i have somehow cowed their naturally independent spirits... is this what education is like? is this what education should be like? at times, i don't know... but in any case, whether i'm cruel or laissez faire about them, it's all LOVE, right? hope they realize it.
i've got to ground myself. we only move via our resistance to this earth. did you know that? without pushing off the ground, we can't go anywhere. right now, i'm practicing antigravity, floating in dreams and other purposeless mental loops. soon enough, i'm going to have to "bring myself down" and get back to business.
i want to, i don't want to.
how can i put it?
all in all, i suppose i am so tired, as soul asylum puts it, "that i couldn't even sleep."
no rest for the wicked, i guess.
sweet dreams to y'all (or, more likely, y'none).
motivation
two "forces":
inertia and momentum
one keeps things going
and the other keeps things stopping
and me is in between
pushing the gas
and pushing the brakes
stop-go-stop
go-stop-go
stealing from one to pay the other
just to test seat belts
and whiplash soda
when can i stop driving
what's my destination
what's my motivation
tell me.
i've forgotten what it means
to arrive.
i want to run empty one day
i've paid my carbon quota ten times over
so can i give it a rest?
on the side of some nameless road
let me pretend
i'm a solar panel
or a windmill
i'd like to soak in some rays and breathe
just for a minute
and pretend that it matters
that it is productive
that it helps the world go round.
i want to be
effortless again.
nothing
forced.
inertia and momentum
one keeps things going
and the other keeps things stopping
and me is in between
pushing the gas
and pushing the brakes
stop-go-stop
go-stop-go
stealing from one to pay the other
just to test seat belts
and whiplash soda
when can i stop driving
what's my destination
what's my motivation
tell me.
i've forgotten what it means
to arrive.
i want to run empty one day
i've paid my carbon quota ten times over
so can i give it a rest?
on the side of some nameless road
let me pretend
i'm a solar panel
or a windmill
i'd like to soak in some rays and breathe
just for a minute
and pretend that it matters
that it is productive
that it helps the world go round.
i want to be
effortless again.
nothing
forced.
Revenant
[revenant is the working title... but perhaps it is not the best... this is more a story than a poem, and not a very good one at that... a lot of metaphors re: memory. like everything, this needs work.]
Revenant
He left her during her afternoon nap,
her mouth agape for flies.
His slippers were at the front door waiting
And they were so eager to go somewhere
He barely stepped into one before
the second tried to leapfrog ahead.
There was no destination planned
and no map to get there
but he got himself lost just the same
in no time at all.
He looked down at his slippered feet
accusingly.
It was then that the dog appeared,
an Alaskan huskie with a blue eye
and a yellow eye
and a lolling tongue in between.
And the dog said:
“You lost?”
And he nodded,
not quite recalling that
dogs didn’t usually speak.
But speak this one did,
too much, in fact.
“I’m not lost,” boasted the dog.
“They thought I’d be loyal
and come whenever they called
just because they bought me
and fed me and cleaned up my shit.”
And the dog grinned a yellow grin.
It was fearsome.
“But I know what I am.
Once, somewhere cold and white,
My ancestors hunted caribou in packs.
They never hesitated
to bite anything
full in the throat,
and taste the scream and pulse
of a thing as it ran out in rivers
free.”
The dog looked away,
“They took my true nature for granted.
They thought that because they collared me
and named me,
they owned me.
They thought I would always always
come when they called.”
Then the dog sidled up to him,
licked his palm.
“But I’ll come when you call.
And I’ll help you find your way.
Where was it you were trying to go?”
And the man didn’t know what to say.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the dog.
“I know where to go when I am lost.
Come with me.”
And the dog led the man
(though to all appearances, it seemed
the man walked the dog)
and they walked down Hailipo Road
to Papipi,
to a kiawe tree shaped like
a frozen wave about to fall.
They followed it
as though it were a signpost
and turned left.
The man paid little attention
to the houses and cars and people they passed,
all the sun-faded, rusted and roasted things.
He knew how quickly they changed
and how futile it was
to try to learn them with each passing season
and each passing day.
He instead stared down at what
his slippers tasted
with each slapping step.
Everything was white,
not the clean white of new paper
but a dirty, tarnished white.
It was as though he were walking on
a world-stained cloud.
Everything white:
old dogshit, husked and fibrous,
like the ash of charcoal briquettes
too dry even for flies.
Or coral, the same coral that made
most of the dirty white walls around here.
“Coral,” said the dog, as though reading his mind,
“are the bones of countless tiny sea animals.
We are essentially walking over a vast graveyard.”
And the dog turned his head
and glanced back at the man,
tongue leaking out of a toothy grin.
“What must we be to them?
And what must they be to us?
Are we their memories, or are they ours?”
The man scrunched his face.
The dog was getting annoying;
he had disturbed him
from his contemplation of white.
He returned his eyes to his slippers
only to find that they had taken up sand,
warm grains slipping between his toes.
When he looked up and around,
he discovered he was somewhere else.
“Here we are,”
announced the dog.
“Where I go when I am lost.”
Before the two of them
was the edge of the world
hungry and erosive
carrying white shimmering clouds as offerings
and breaking them closer and closer to their feet
pulling what was dislodged slitheringly back.
“Stay here,”
commanded the dog,
“I’ve some bones to rediscover.”
And the dog trotted off
trailing smooth padded prints.
The man collapsed, sat.
His fingers grasped the sand
like hungry roots
but it all slipped out and between
until his fists were buried in their warmth.
He closed his eyes
and the sun cast red shadows
over his fading vision.
He remembers.
They had cut the tree down.
It had been a surgical procedure,
piecemeal and precise.
A part of him had to admire the
workmanship.
Branches cut progressively
cast into the mulcher
chewed up and spit out into
the back of a dump truck.
Little by little (but quickly nonetheless)
the tree was denuded of leaves,
and then it lost its skeleton
and then it lost its spine
and finally even the stump
was leveled to the ground.
At the end, it was gone,
and the dump truck
was filled with damp powder.
What had taken decades to grow
had been removed in the span of a day.
He opened his eyes again
and the world appeared to him
as it truly was
an endless “Indian giver”
taking everything away
over and over and over.
He grasped the sand again, hard.
And then it came to him,
with sharp suddenness.
He remembered a day
when he sat on this very beach
on this very spot.
His wife was hunched over
collecting ogo from the surf break.
Obaban was beside him
sitting like a planted tree.
And his children were laughing
as the waves turned them end over end
pushed them away and pulled them back.
The sun on the tail end of its journey
took the first hints of color
warming his chest, his face.
Everything was perfect in that moment,
the world in its fullness.
He remembered closing his eyes
to burn it all into him,
so he would remember it forever.
When he opened his eyes,
it was all gone again.
But he remembered it still.
He felt a wet warmth against his hand.
“You okay?”
called the dog.
“I tried to find a bone
I’d buried around here,
but I got a diaper instead.”
The dog sneezed, trying to eject the smell, the taste.
“Anyway,” the dog continued,
glancing behind itself,
“I’ve got to run.
It looks like they’re here for you,
but a disloyal and wild thing like me
can’t be too careful.”
The dog licked his hand again.
“Was nice talking to you.
By the way, they used to call me
Boomer, short for something that is
supposed to come back."
He grinned a yellow grin.
And then with a bark,
he was off,
paws splashing in the shorebreak.
Before long, a hand fell on the man’s shoulder.
“Masaru Mitakara?”
said the police officer.
The man stared blankly back.
“I’m here to take you home, Mr. Mitakara,”
said the police officer.
“Your wife is waiting for you.”
And the man nodded,
rose to his feet,
shook the sand from his slippers.
And without a second glance
he accompanied the officer back
home.
Revenant
He left her during her afternoon nap,
her mouth agape for flies.
His slippers were at the front door waiting
And they were so eager to go somewhere
He barely stepped into one before
the second tried to leapfrog ahead.
There was no destination planned
and no map to get there
but he got himself lost just the same
in no time at all.
He looked down at his slippered feet
accusingly.
It was then that the dog appeared,
an Alaskan huskie with a blue eye
and a yellow eye
and a lolling tongue in between.
And the dog said:
“You lost?”
And he nodded,
not quite recalling that
dogs didn’t usually speak.
But speak this one did,
too much, in fact.
“I’m not lost,” boasted the dog.
“They thought I’d be loyal
and come whenever they called
just because they bought me
and fed me and cleaned up my shit.”
And the dog grinned a yellow grin.
It was fearsome.
“But I know what I am.
Once, somewhere cold and white,
My ancestors hunted caribou in packs.
They never hesitated
to bite anything
full in the throat,
and taste the scream and pulse
of a thing as it ran out in rivers
free.”
The dog looked away,
“They took my true nature for granted.
They thought that because they collared me
and named me,
they owned me.
They thought I would always always
come when they called.”
Then the dog sidled up to him,
licked his palm.
“But I’ll come when you call.
And I’ll help you find your way.
Where was it you were trying to go?”
And the man didn’t know what to say.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the dog.
“I know where to go when I am lost.
Come with me.”
And the dog led the man
(though to all appearances, it seemed
the man walked the dog)
and they walked down Hailipo Road
to Papipi,
to a kiawe tree shaped like
a frozen wave about to fall.
They followed it
as though it were a signpost
and turned left.
The man paid little attention
to the houses and cars and people they passed,
all the sun-faded, rusted and roasted things.
He knew how quickly they changed
and how futile it was
to try to learn them with each passing season
and each passing day.
He instead stared down at what
his slippers tasted
with each slapping step.
Everything was white,
not the clean white of new paper
but a dirty, tarnished white.
It was as though he were walking on
a world-stained cloud.
Everything white:
old dogshit, husked and fibrous,
like the ash of charcoal briquettes
too dry even for flies.
Or coral, the same coral that made
most of the dirty white walls around here.
“Coral,” said the dog, as though reading his mind,
“are the bones of countless tiny sea animals.
We are essentially walking over a vast graveyard.”
And the dog turned his head
and glanced back at the man,
tongue leaking out of a toothy grin.
“What must we be to them?
And what must they be to us?
Are we their memories, or are they ours?”
The man scrunched his face.
The dog was getting annoying;
he had disturbed him
from his contemplation of white.
He returned his eyes to his slippers
only to find that they had taken up sand,
warm grains slipping between his toes.
When he looked up and around,
he discovered he was somewhere else.
“Here we are,”
announced the dog.
“Where I go when I am lost.”
Before the two of them
was the edge of the world
hungry and erosive
carrying white shimmering clouds as offerings
and breaking them closer and closer to their feet
pulling what was dislodged slitheringly back.
“Stay here,”
commanded the dog,
“I’ve some bones to rediscover.”
And the dog trotted off
trailing smooth padded prints.
The man collapsed, sat.
His fingers grasped the sand
like hungry roots
but it all slipped out and between
until his fists were buried in their warmth.
He closed his eyes
and the sun cast red shadows
over his fading vision.
He remembers.
They had cut the tree down.
It had been a surgical procedure,
piecemeal and precise.
A part of him had to admire the
workmanship.
Branches cut progressively
cast into the mulcher
chewed up and spit out into
the back of a dump truck.
Little by little (but quickly nonetheless)
the tree was denuded of leaves,
and then it lost its skeleton
and then it lost its spine
and finally even the stump
was leveled to the ground.
At the end, it was gone,
and the dump truck
was filled with damp powder.
What had taken decades to grow
had been removed in the span of a day.
He opened his eyes again
and the world appeared to him
as it truly was
an endless “Indian giver”
taking everything away
over and over and over.
He grasped the sand again, hard.
And then it came to him,
with sharp suddenness.
He remembered a day
when he sat on this very beach
on this very spot.
His wife was hunched over
collecting ogo from the surf break.
Obaban was beside him
sitting like a planted tree.
And his children were laughing
as the waves turned them end over end
pushed them away and pulled them back.
The sun on the tail end of its journey
took the first hints of color
warming his chest, his face.
Everything was perfect in that moment,
the world in its fullness.
He remembered closing his eyes
to burn it all into him,
so he would remember it forever.
When he opened his eyes,
it was all gone again.
But he remembered it still.
He felt a wet warmth against his hand.
“You okay?”
called the dog.
“I tried to find a bone
I’d buried around here,
but I got a diaper instead.”
The dog sneezed, trying to eject the smell, the taste.
“Anyway,” the dog continued,
glancing behind itself,
“I’ve got to run.
It looks like they’re here for you,
but a disloyal and wild thing like me
can’t be too careful.”
The dog licked his hand again.
“Was nice talking to you.
By the way, they used to call me
Boomer, short for something that is
supposed to come back."
He grinned a yellow grin.
And then with a bark,
he was off,
paws splashing in the shorebreak.
Before long, a hand fell on the man’s shoulder.
“Masaru Mitakara?”
said the police officer.
The man stared blankly back.
“I’m here to take you home, Mr. Mitakara,”
said the police officer.
“Your wife is waiting for you.”
And the man nodded,
rose to his feet,
shook the sand from his slippers.
And without a second glance
he accompanied the officer back
home.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
willow
tonight for some reason, we were talking about ghosts. and i said to willow and aiden that, if there ever were a demon or a ghost in our house, then i would have to fight it so that they (willow and aiden) could get away... even if it killed me.
and willow said, touchingly: "don't let it kill you daddy. i love you too much."
she also said, earlier this evening: "daddy, i love you more than drawing." (and she loves drawing very much.)
i am blessed by my kids. i often wonder what twilight zone episode i am living, that a worthless piece of crap like myself could be the parent of such wise and wonderful children. in my dreams, i am worthy of them. in my dreams.
and willow said, touchingly: "don't let it kill you daddy. i love you too much."
she also said, earlier this evening: "daddy, i love you more than drawing." (and she loves drawing very much.)
i am blessed by my kids. i often wonder what twilight zone episode i am living, that a worthless piece of crap like myself could be the parent of such wise and wonderful children. in my dreams, i am worthy of them. in my dreams.
if...
if...
you know the answer, don't bother to ask the question!
advice to those who've already "made up their minds."
i decided to be a resistor to the "social reality" a long time ago, but i suppose it gets harder and harder the older i get. i had a theory once that it was possible to escape the "radar" of class conscious idiots by simply "blanking/zenning out" and being "me" (once known affectionately as "the rude hawaiian"). the strategy doesn't necessarily work so well nowadays: my superego is too powerful; i can no longer escape its ever-present sauron-esque eye.
i still nevertheless cling to the possibility of innocence, of simplicity, of sincerity. and i still believe in both blindness and skin. being unseeing and hollow.
ironic, isn't it, that to be of true worth in this world of too-much-information-and-too-little-heart, one must embody worthlessness. i SWEAR it's the only way. once you invest in the one-up game of the world, thinking you've got some clever new play, you've already LOST. irrevocably lost.
think i'm kidding?
...
socrates had it right. to be wise, you must know nothing at all. absolutely nothing.
you know the answer, don't bother to ask the question!
advice to those who've already "made up their minds."
i decided to be a resistor to the "social reality" a long time ago, but i suppose it gets harder and harder the older i get. i had a theory once that it was possible to escape the "radar" of class conscious idiots by simply "blanking/zenning out" and being "me" (once known affectionately as "the rude hawaiian"). the strategy doesn't necessarily work so well nowadays: my superego is too powerful; i can no longer escape its ever-present sauron-esque eye.
i still nevertheless cling to the possibility of innocence, of simplicity, of sincerity. and i still believe in both blindness and skin. being unseeing and hollow.
ironic, isn't it, that to be of true worth in this world of too-much-information-and-too-little-heart, one must embody worthlessness. i SWEAR it's the only way. once you invest in the one-up game of the world, thinking you've got some clever new play, you've already LOST. irrevocably lost.
think i'm kidding?
...
socrates had it right. to be wise, you must know nothing at all. absolutely nothing.
empty eyed
they can creep through the screens
gingerly step on poised toes
slip the covers askance
sidle next to me in bed
their empty eyes curl for but a moment
tears drooling...
and then they feed with abandon
needle teeth puncturing
all esteem and sense of
solidity
leave hollow places in dreams
that once had meaning
they drink my soul delightfully
through proboscis straws
until the sweet taste
coats their black fish tongues
and they smack their lips for something new
their fingertips like delivery forceps
pluck the living sight out of me
hold my still connected eyes
dangling out of sockets
i can see them in
wavering stereo scope
eyeing my two
last morsels hungrily
and in short shrift
they attack
hard to imagine how
so little could be spread so thin
but miracle!
i am the loaf and the fish
that jesus fed masses with
i am chinese take out
for the demons
and i know.
just when i can stir
and pull my guts in and
begin to creep away
they'll be hungry
again.
for more.
gingerly step on poised toes
slip the covers askance
sidle next to me in bed
their empty eyes curl for but a moment
tears drooling...
and then they feed with abandon
needle teeth puncturing
all esteem and sense of
solidity
leave hollow places in dreams
that once had meaning
they drink my soul delightfully
through proboscis straws
until the sweet taste
coats their black fish tongues
and they smack their lips for something new
their fingertips like delivery forceps
pluck the living sight out of me
hold my still connected eyes
dangling out of sockets
i can see them in
wavering stereo scope
eyeing my two
last morsels hungrily
and in short shrift
they attack
hard to imagine how
so little could be spread so thin
but miracle!
i am the loaf and the fish
that jesus fed masses with
i am chinese take out
for the demons
and i know.
just when i can stir
and pull my guts in and
begin to creep away
they'll be hungry
again.
for more.
kappa dreams
in warm bathwater silent screams
the offal that the toilet cleans
all of these the kappa dreams
deep beneath the storm drain streams.
everything that you resent,
refuse, deny, misrepresent,
and all the sins you don't repent
would you suspect just where they went?
they're in his head, a chawan bowl
where we have brains, he has a hole
to stew the secrets no one told
and pretend, with them, he has a soul.
the offal that the toilet cleans
all of these the kappa dreams
deep beneath the storm drain streams.
everything that you resent,
refuse, deny, misrepresent,
and all the sins you don't repent
would you suspect just where they went?
they're in his head, a chawan bowl
where we have brains, he has a hole
to stew the secrets no one told
and pretend, with them, he has a soul.
principle of opportunity versus principle of proof
america's educational system is guided by two somewhat contradictory principles: the principle of opportunity and the principle of proof.
the principle of opportunity basically means that ALL people have the right to be educated in our society. this is the motive force behind the creation and maintenance of our public school system. it is the "inclusive" tendency, that continually forces schools to draw ever wider circles to "include" all manner of students into the "fold," notably "special education" students (those with learning disabilities, mental retardation, emotional/behavioral disorders, etc.).
the principle of proof, however, holds that schools are "proving grounds" which serve to discriminate the "good students" from the "poor students"; presumably, those who are good students are qualified for more difficult and/or higher paying jobs, while the poor students are more or less "stuck in a rut." this, in contrast to the principle of opportunity, tends to be an "EXCLUSIONARY" tendency; it is the motivation behind what is commonly called "tracking," i.e. the division of the student body into different "tracks," with "good students" taking higher level courses and "poor students" taking basic or even remedial courses.
whichever principle you profess to believe in, the school system AS IS exists as a tension between these two fundamental principles. in an ideal world, we could deliver on the demands of both principles, i.e., getting ALL students to perform at HIGH levels. but in reality, this is not only impractical, it is IMPOSSIBLE...
i heard on the radio that cuba is supposed to have an above 90% literacy rate. IMPOSSIBLE. in any given population, there are many who are mentally retarded or otherwise cognitively impaired, and thus who CANNOT become literate. this percentage alone makes a 90% literacy rate IMPOSSIBLE. those who believe that this IS possible and is applicable to our diverse society are from another dimension or something... particularly in the united states, where we believe strongly in the principle of opportunity, and take any and all comers (second language speakers, etc.), teachers are hard-pressed to achieve consistent standards in ANY field, particularly literacy.
NCLB (no child left behind) attempts to apply a standard (principle of proof) universally (principle of opportunity). the internal contradiction of attempting to satisfy two VERY DIFFERENT and oppositional tendencies naturally dooms it nearly to failure from the start. while it is perhaps admirable in its call for standardization, it is unrealistic, failing to appreciate not only the PRACTICAL and logistical requirements for execution, but the fundamentally PHILOSOPHICAL divide it attempts to naively bridge.
the principle of opportunity basically means that ALL people have the right to be educated in our society. this is the motive force behind the creation and maintenance of our public school system. it is the "inclusive" tendency, that continually forces schools to draw ever wider circles to "include" all manner of students into the "fold," notably "special education" students (those with learning disabilities, mental retardation, emotional/behavioral disorders, etc.).
the principle of proof, however, holds that schools are "proving grounds" which serve to discriminate the "good students" from the "poor students"; presumably, those who are good students are qualified for more difficult and/or higher paying jobs, while the poor students are more or less "stuck in a rut." this, in contrast to the principle of opportunity, tends to be an "EXCLUSIONARY" tendency; it is the motivation behind what is commonly called "tracking," i.e. the division of the student body into different "tracks," with "good students" taking higher level courses and "poor students" taking basic or even remedial courses.
whichever principle you profess to believe in, the school system AS IS exists as a tension between these two fundamental principles. in an ideal world, we could deliver on the demands of both principles, i.e., getting ALL students to perform at HIGH levels. but in reality, this is not only impractical, it is IMPOSSIBLE...
i heard on the radio that cuba is supposed to have an above 90% literacy rate. IMPOSSIBLE. in any given population, there are many who are mentally retarded or otherwise cognitively impaired, and thus who CANNOT become literate. this percentage alone makes a 90% literacy rate IMPOSSIBLE. those who believe that this IS possible and is applicable to our diverse society are from another dimension or something... particularly in the united states, where we believe strongly in the principle of opportunity, and take any and all comers (second language speakers, etc.), teachers are hard-pressed to achieve consistent standards in ANY field, particularly literacy.
NCLB (no child left behind) attempts to apply a standard (principle of proof) universally (principle of opportunity). the internal contradiction of attempting to satisfy two VERY DIFFERENT and oppositional tendencies naturally dooms it nearly to failure from the start. while it is perhaps admirable in its call for standardization, it is unrealistic, failing to appreciate not only the PRACTICAL and logistical requirements for execution, but the fundamentally PHILOSOPHICAL divide it attempts to naively bridge.
Monday, May 19, 2008
the REAL reckoner lyrics
so what is thom actually singing? i had my guesses (although my guesses didn't actually make a whole lotta sense...) here's the official take on what's being sung:
reckoner,
you can't take it with you.
disavow the pleasure.
you are not to blame for
bittersweet detractors
dare not speak his name
dedicated to all you, all your needs (? i've heard it's "to all human beings")
because we separate
it ripples our reflections
because we separate
it ripples our reflections
reckoner,
you can't take it with you.
disavow the pleasure.
you are not to blame for
bittersweet detractors
dare not speak his name
dedicated to all you, all your needs (? i've heard it's "to all human beings")
because we separate
it ripples our reflections
because we separate
it ripples our reflections
a REAL cover up, part deu
this type a dude. i actually like both, for different reasons. the dude is more "accurate," in both his guitar playing and voice (as in mimicking radiohead), but "furious gal" has a lot of passion.
i WISH.
i WISH.
a REAL cover up
just to show you how some REAL musicians/singers with REAL instruments REALLY do a cover...
how i committed the crime
okay, so this is how i did it.
i hooked up my mac powerbook (actually my wife's, which i have commandeered) to our yamaha clavinova via a special midi interface cable (which plugs into the usb port). as i may have mentioned previously, i am more a keyboard person than anything else.
then, i messed around with different guitar settings on garage band until i found something pretty nice... i felt it needed the sort of soft reverb feel, because if not, then because the input method was the keyboard, the "guitar" didn't have a realistic texture to it. so i chose "nylon shimmer." i listened to the radiohead clip posted previously, tried to copy some of what thom yorke plays (i believe it's him doing that). there are some really cool and subtle transitions he plays between notes that i wasn't able to emulate. at one point, you can hear my approximation, which is more a clunky chord... the way he does it, one note sort of blend/rises into the next in a really beautiful way.
the rhythm is hard to set for me in garage band. i gave up using the metronome; for one thing, i wasn't sure how to set it to the same tempo as the original radiohead song. for another, it seems to just interfere with the natural speed i set for the song; always, within a few measures, i am just off tempo enough to have to stop. so i just did the tempo by feel.
the trouble with the guitar was that it was a little off-rhythm, on the up-beat (i don't know if that's the right lingo, but...).
... yes, i DID try to do the percussion; that's actually something very distinct about the recent radiohead songs, they really emphasize the drums... but i CANNOT play his complex rhythms on the keyboard. i tried. maybe it's this old yamaha (some of the keys stick), but i couldn't rapidly hit a single key (set to the snare drum) to adequately capture the complex rhythms... so i just GAVE UP. i think if i ever DO try to enter percussion, it'd be best to get drum pads... or even actually record live drums (as if).
with just the guitar, things sounded pretty hollow, even with the guitar on "nylon shimmer." so i used some of the synth settings (there are MANY MANY settings on garage band). i chose something with a light atmospheric "filler" feel: "floating embers." and i determined a chord sequence to reinforce the guitar playing. the big trouble with this synth addition (and i'm sure you notice it) is that because it has an echo reverb sound (sometimes wonderfully complex), it tends to blur the chord sequences into a mild cacophany (which the generous listener will simply translate as "a rich field.") sort of like playing a chord sequence on a piano with the pedal held down. i tried to reduce this effect; actually, if you listen to the latter half (after the hard piano chords), the synth effect is reduced almost to nothing (because if i kept it, the whole cacophany effect would have sounded overwhelming).
the third voice to add was the hard piano chords that occur halfway through my clip. this was relatively simple, although it was hard to coordinate with the guitar (offbeat). my result definitely wasn't perfect, and i found i couldn't fine tune to the extent i would've liked. but- this was my first attempt.
last thing i added was my own voice. it was (i swear) like 2 am in the morning. i couldn't sing loud, because everyone was sleeping. also, my voice wasn't exactly fine tuned at that time, being scratched by frito lay chips and some unidentifiable carbonated drink...
(by the way, i TRIED to do falsetto once. it was TERRIBLE... i will never try that again. it's just too disrespectful to radiohead. and to ears in general.)
the voice settings were fun to play with. a lot had some sort of reverb atmospheric effect. some, like "diva" or "voice reflection" had so much reverb that it led to a similar problem to using the synth "floating embers" setting. so i opted for something with "atmosphere," but which retained a semblance of clarity: "live performance."
all in all, i would say that using garage band was a whole lot of fun. what i'm finding about a lot of mac software is that it was designed by people who knew exactly what someone would WANT to do with it (i.e., someone who actually WAS a video or music editor). my experience with much windows software has been quite the opposite: it was like a bunch of programmers who knew nothing about, say, video production, put together a set of rather clunky and incompatible features to meet some mediocre standard... thusfar, i'm sold on the whole mac mindset.
imagine: someone with little musical background (aside from a few years of compulsory piano lessons, and taiko drumming) could create these music clips in a matter of hours!
(you may be shaking your head, saying, yeah, it SOUNDS like someone with little musical background spent a few hours on it!)
i hooked up my mac powerbook (actually my wife's, which i have commandeered) to our yamaha clavinova via a special midi interface cable (which plugs into the usb port). as i may have mentioned previously, i am more a keyboard person than anything else.
then, i messed around with different guitar settings on garage band until i found something pretty nice... i felt it needed the sort of soft reverb feel, because if not, then because the input method was the keyboard, the "guitar" didn't have a realistic texture to it. so i chose "nylon shimmer." i listened to the radiohead clip posted previously, tried to copy some of what thom yorke plays (i believe it's him doing that). there are some really cool and subtle transitions he plays between notes that i wasn't able to emulate. at one point, you can hear my approximation, which is more a clunky chord... the way he does it, one note sort of blend/rises into the next in a really beautiful way.
the rhythm is hard to set for me in garage band. i gave up using the metronome; for one thing, i wasn't sure how to set it to the same tempo as the original radiohead song. for another, it seems to just interfere with the natural speed i set for the song; always, within a few measures, i am just off tempo enough to have to stop. so i just did the tempo by feel.
the trouble with the guitar was that it was a little off-rhythm, on the up-beat (i don't know if that's the right lingo, but...).
... yes, i DID try to do the percussion; that's actually something very distinct about the recent radiohead songs, they really emphasize the drums... but i CANNOT play his complex rhythms on the keyboard. i tried. maybe it's this old yamaha (some of the keys stick), but i couldn't rapidly hit a single key (set to the snare drum) to adequately capture the complex rhythms... so i just GAVE UP. i think if i ever DO try to enter percussion, it'd be best to get drum pads... or even actually record live drums (as if).
with just the guitar, things sounded pretty hollow, even with the guitar on "nylon shimmer." so i used some of the synth settings (there are MANY MANY settings on garage band). i chose something with a light atmospheric "filler" feel: "floating embers." and i determined a chord sequence to reinforce the guitar playing. the big trouble with this synth addition (and i'm sure you notice it) is that because it has an echo reverb sound (sometimes wonderfully complex), it tends to blur the chord sequences into a mild cacophany (which the generous listener will simply translate as "a rich field.") sort of like playing a chord sequence on a piano with the pedal held down. i tried to reduce this effect; actually, if you listen to the latter half (after the hard piano chords), the synth effect is reduced almost to nothing (because if i kept it, the whole cacophany effect would have sounded overwhelming).
the third voice to add was the hard piano chords that occur halfway through my clip. this was relatively simple, although it was hard to coordinate with the guitar (offbeat). my result definitely wasn't perfect, and i found i couldn't fine tune to the extent i would've liked. but- this was my first attempt.
last thing i added was my own voice. it was (i swear) like 2 am in the morning. i couldn't sing loud, because everyone was sleeping. also, my voice wasn't exactly fine tuned at that time, being scratched by frito lay chips and some unidentifiable carbonated drink...
(by the way, i TRIED to do falsetto once. it was TERRIBLE... i will never try that again. it's just too disrespectful to radiohead. and to ears in general.)
the voice settings were fun to play with. a lot had some sort of reverb atmospheric effect. some, like "diva" or "voice reflection" had so much reverb that it led to a similar problem to using the synth "floating embers" setting. so i opted for something with "atmosphere," but which retained a semblance of clarity: "live performance."
all in all, i would say that using garage band was a whole lot of fun. what i'm finding about a lot of mac software is that it was designed by people who knew exactly what someone would WANT to do with it (i.e., someone who actually WAS a video or music editor). my experience with much windows software has been quite the opposite: it was like a bunch of programmers who knew nothing about, say, video production, put together a set of rather clunky and incompatible features to meet some mediocre standard... thusfar, i'm sold on the whole mac mindset.
imagine: someone with little musical background (aside from a few years of compulsory piano lessons, and taiko drumming) could create these music clips in a matter of hours!
(you may be shaking your head, saying, yeah, it SOUNDS like someone with little musical background spent a few hours on it!)
Sunday, May 18, 2008
(w)reckoner, my attempt at a cover via garage band
all apologies in advance. this is just for fun (mine, definitely not yours).
followup: "resent"
okay, so here's an interesting clip about the word "resent" (also from Answers.com):
tr.v., -sent·ed, -sent·ing, -sents.
tr.v., -sent·ed, -sent·ing, -sents.
To feel indignantly aggrieved at.
[French ressentir, to be angry, from Old French resentir, to feel strongly : re-, re- + sentir, to feel (from Latin sentīre).]
WORD HISTORY When we read the statement “Should we not be monstrously ingratefull if we did not deeply resent such kindness?” (from the Sermons of Isaac Barrow, written before 1677), we may be pardoned for momentarily thinking we have followed the White Rabbit down the rabbit hole. For a time ranging roughly from the last part of the 17th century to the second half of the 18th, the word resent could refer to gratitude and appreciation as well as injury and insult. Resent has also been used in other senses that seem strange to us, such as “to feel pain” or “to perceive by smell.” The thread that ties the senses together is the notion of feeling or perceiving. The Old French source of our word, resentir, “to feel strongly,” is made up of the prefix re–, acting in this case as an intensive, and sentir, “to feel or perceive.” There is much that one can feel, but at least for now this word has narrowed its focus to a feeling of indignation.
ressentiment
definition of "ressentiment" (from Answers.com):
interestingly, the root word has nothing to do with hostility or "resentment" but is all about "feeling strongly." is it that ANY feeling that has no means of articulation turns into what we typically define as "resentment?"
n.
A generalized feeling of resentment and often hostility harbored by one individual or group against another, especially chronically and with no means of direct expression.
[French, resentment, from Old French ressentement, from resentir, to feel strongly. See resent.]
interestingly, the root word has nothing to do with hostility or "resentment" but is all about "feeling strongly." is it that ANY feeling that has no means of articulation turns into what we typically define as "resentment?"
in love with love
once, while sitting around at this table in biology class, across from one socialite girl from my class, who was talking to one muscle bound (or so he thought, in his black tank top) upperclassman dude, a statement kind of struck me as odd. the girl said, "oh yeah, well, you know, he's the kind of guy who's in love with love."
what the hell did that mean?
at first, it seemed to me just another pretentious statement from someone who was in the "in crowd," who believed her feelings were dead on accurate statements of social reality (actually, the way things went, they probably were, in the sense that they made reality). it seemed like just another swoosh statement to go right over my (nerdling) head.
but then, maybe it didn't go over my head. maybe it was more like an inadvertent arrow that struck me dead in the chest. was i "the kind of guy who was in love with love?" meaning: did i really love the girl, or was it just the whole drama around the PROCESS that i loved?
now that i think about it (decades later), maybe i WAS in love with love. but the drama that i wrote around the process was NEVER a romance, or even a comedy. it was always fundamentally and desperately TRAGIC.
maybe, just maybe, i was in love with SADNESS instead. the sad and abused loner, the only one who did the right thing, and thus could never "get any." i still feel a twinge of resonance with that sentiment. i still believe FUNDAMENTALLY that the way "love" is set up nowadays (and from the very very beginning), being just and fair and kind has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with being loved or in love.
there's a quote that really really struck me when i first read it, by haruki murakami:
"Fairness is a concept that only applies in limited situations. Yet we want that concept to apply to everything, in and out of phase. From snails to hardware stores to married life. Maybe no one finds it, or even misses it, but fairness is like love. What is given has nothing to do with what we seek. [or deserve, my addition]" -from hard-boiled wonderland and the end of the world
what the hell did that mean?
at first, it seemed to me just another pretentious statement from someone who was in the "in crowd," who believed her feelings were dead on accurate statements of social reality (actually, the way things went, they probably were, in the sense that they made reality). it seemed like just another swoosh statement to go right over my (nerdling) head.
but then, maybe it didn't go over my head. maybe it was more like an inadvertent arrow that struck me dead in the chest. was i "the kind of guy who was in love with love?" meaning: did i really love the girl, or was it just the whole drama around the PROCESS that i loved?
now that i think about it (decades later), maybe i WAS in love with love. but the drama that i wrote around the process was NEVER a romance, or even a comedy. it was always fundamentally and desperately TRAGIC.
maybe, just maybe, i was in love with SADNESS instead. the sad and abused loner, the only one who did the right thing, and thus could never "get any." i still feel a twinge of resonance with that sentiment. i still believe FUNDAMENTALLY that the way "love" is set up nowadays (and from the very very beginning), being just and fair and kind has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with being loved or in love.
there's a quote that really really struck me when i first read it, by haruki murakami:
"Fairness is a concept that only applies in limited situations. Yet we want that concept to apply to everything, in and out of phase. From snails to hardware stores to married life. Maybe no one finds it, or even misses it, but fairness is like love. What is given has nothing to do with what we seek. [or deserve, my addition]" -from hard-boiled wonderland and the end of the world
first kiss
okay, first of all, it wasn't planned.
i was, as with everything, really really uncertain- where was it all going? i wasn't sure, i was leaving everything on autopilot or something. and so, as with most things, it was she who took the initiative. as we were about to part, at the corner of the garage of her house, mere footsteps away from the bottom of the stairway, she pulled off her cap (a maneuver, it turns out). and, standing there, looking at me (with what my ewa beach grandma calls "soft eyes"), she said, "you can kiss me, you know."
and, of course, like the googoo puppy dog that i am, i did. i do everything on demand. and, according to her, i did it well.
as for me, well, i had never actually kissed ANYONE full on the lips before (honest to gods truth, they should have made a movie out about me, starring that guy from "the office"), and it was really surprising how soft it was. later, stuttering to myself, i insisted that it was like bubble gum (and now, despite the imprecision and connotations, i still think it was the best way to describe it).
soft.
i was, as with everything, really really uncertain- where was it all going? i wasn't sure, i was leaving everything on autopilot or something. and so, as with most things, it was she who took the initiative. as we were about to part, at the corner of the garage of her house, mere footsteps away from the bottom of the stairway, she pulled off her cap (a maneuver, it turns out). and, standing there, looking at me (with what my ewa beach grandma calls "soft eyes"), she said, "you can kiss me, you know."
and, of course, like the googoo puppy dog that i am, i did. i do everything on demand. and, according to her, i did it well.
as for me, well, i had never actually kissed ANYONE full on the lips before (honest to gods truth, they should have made a movie out about me, starring that guy from "the office"), and it was really surprising how soft it was. later, stuttering to myself, i insisted that it was like bubble gum (and now, despite the imprecision and connotations, i still think it was the best way to describe it).
soft.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
what i hate
i'm feeling pretty tangled up inside at the moment.
if there's one thing that annoys me more than anything, it is the feeling that i've been judged without having been consulted. "prejudice." i mean, i actually forgive a lot of instances of what we term actual prejudice. for example, if you travel around in the southern united states, or anywhere where asians happen to be kind of scarce, you kind of have to forgive people for some of their antiquated notions about what you are like; they've just never seen much of your kind "round those parts." it's like if a martian happened to land in the middle of your town, and wound up getting offended when you started asking dumb questions like: "but aren't you all supposed to be little and green, and talk in meeps and beeps, and be all hostile, like 'take me to your leader' and all that?" such indiscrete and tactless questions are only natural.
curiosity isn't all that bad. in fact, it's natural, it's human. i think that, if a child (naive) would do it, then it can't be all bad.
the kind of prejudice i DO hate, however, has to do more with people who know you, or think they know you, and automatically write you off as "stupid" or "incompetent" or whatever. i mean, actually, i thought i was pretty much over this sort of thing, i thought that i could function independently of all the judgments that people placed upon me... but i guess it never fails to surprise me how rampant this sort of thing is, and how it always pops up in the most unexpected corners. you THINK people are friends, they're on your side, and then BAM! it hits you. oh, there it goes again, someone else playing the whole class judgment game.
i realize that the whole pecking (pecker) order is almost a built in mechanism in us. hell, maybe it operates in all of us, it's just that some of us sublimate it better than others. but i think we should all strive to transcend some of our baser (survivalist) instincts, in favor of loftier ideals... it behooves us to try to be our best, and to expect the best from all around us. i don't know, i've always felt it easier to live that way...
but there are a lot of people, it turns out, who cannot feel secure about themselves without somehow putting others around them down: "me up because you go down." people who cannot sincerely feel happy about the successes of other people, because that automatically calls into question what they are (their status). now, i'll be the first to admit that i often feel insecure, i often feel like i am a less than nothing in a something world... but i never take it out on the world, i never try to undermine the glories of others. if there are imperfections that i can rectify in myself, i try to do so; if not, well, that's just me, a human being with a lot of flaws. somehow, it feels instinctively wrong to insult others who are apparently doing better than you; it feels like you're just sour grapes, consoling yourself...
i'm reminded of the morrisey song:
"we hate it when our friends become successful, and if they're not then that makes it even worse and
if we can destroy them, you bet your life we will destroy them
if we can hurt them, well, we may as well.
it's really laughable
aha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha..."
great song. great attitude.
the moral of this story: if you're happy with yourself, your life, your family, etc., then BE happy. celebrate in your happiness. but don't look at other people to confirm/deny that happiness. and by all means, don't try to put others down so that you can "live off the contrast."
and if you're not happy with yourself, then: a) work on what you can; or b) just accept things; (g/G) od gave you what you have, and you should learn how to be thankful and love it. the inappropriate response is ALWAYS to: c) sneakily undermine those that you envy.
as radiohead sings: "the pointless snide remark/hammerheaded sharks/the pot will call the kettle black/ it's a drunken punch up at a wedding"
another inappropriate response, and one which i have fallen victim to (hence my internal tangled up feeling): d) to get pressured into thinking there is something wrong with you, and getting fearful/angry about it all, and trying to "force" inappropriate developments to keep up with the joneses. this is the path to destruction, "the dark side of the force..."
tonight, i started to lose my patience as i was working with the kids on violin. and i actually had to stop, take a breath. why was i pushing so hard? it wasn't because of the kids. actually, they're doing great. it was because SOMEONE injected this feeling, this ugly, desperate feeling in me, this prejudice about me... and as a result, i felt compelled to prove things were otherwise with me and mine.
but, as i once said (kinda nonsensically): "prove and love don't rhyme." when you try to prove yourself, you actually separate yourself from life and love, and end up failing both to live up to your potential, and to "prove anything." (who are you trying to convince, anyway???) it's only when you breathe love and patience and tolerance and compassion that things become automatically and implicitly perfect...
that's the story i'm sticking to tonight, anyway.
if there's one thing that annoys me more than anything, it is the feeling that i've been judged without having been consulted. "prejudice." i mean, i actually forgive a lot of instances of what we term actual prejudice. for example, if you travel around in the southern united states, or anywhere where asians happen to be kind of scarce, you kind of have to forgive people for some of their antiquated notions about what you are like; they've just never seen much of your kind "round those parts." it's like if a martian happened to land in the middle of your town, and wound up getting offended when you started asking dumb questions like: "but aren't you all supposed to be little and green, and talk in meeps and beeps, and be all hostile, like 'take me to your leader' and all that?" such indiscrete and tactless questions are only natural.
curiosity isn't all that bad. in fact, it's natural, it's human. i think that, if a child (naive) would do it, then it can't be all bad.
the kind of prejudice i DO hate, however, has to do more with people who know you, or think they know you, and automatically write you off as "stupid" or "incompetent" or whatever. i mean, actually, i thought i was pretty much over this sort of thing, i thought that i could function independently of all the judgments that people placed upon me... but i guess it never fails to surprise me how rampant this sort of thing is, and how it always pops up in the most unexpected corners. you THINK people are friends, they're on your side, and then BAM! it hits you. oh, there it goes again, someone else playing the whole class judgment game.
i realize that the whole pecking (pecker) order is almost a built in mechanism in us. hell, maybe it operates in all of us, it's just that some of us sublimate it better than others. but i think we should all strive to transcend some of our baser (survivalist) instincts, in favor of loftier ideals... it behooves us to try to be our best, and to expect the best from all around us. i don't know, i've always felt it easier to live that way...
but there are a lot of people, it turns out, who cannot feel secure about themselves without somehow putting others around them down: "me up because you go down." people who cannot sincerely feel happy about the successes of other people, because that automatically calls into question what they are (their status). now, i'll be the first to admit that i often feel insecure, i often feel like i am a less than nothing in a something world... but i never take it out on the world, i never try to undermine the glories of others. if there are imperfections that i can rectify in myself, i try to do so; if not, well, that's just me, a human being with a lot of flaws. somehow, it feels instinctively wrong to insult others who are apparently doing better than you; it feels like you're just sour grapes, consoling yourself...
i'm reminded of the morrisey song:
"we hate it when our friends become successful, and if they're not then that makes it even worse and
if we can destroy them, you bet your life we will destroy them
if we can hurt them, well, we may as well.
it's really laughable
aha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha..."
great song. great attitude.
the moral of this story: if you're happy with yourself, your life, your family, etc., then BE happy. celebrate in your happiness. but don't look at other people to confirm/deny that happiness. and by all means, don't try to put others down so that you can "live off the contrast."
and if you're not happy with yourself, then: a) work on what you can; or b) just accept things; (g/G) od gave you what you have, and you should learn how to be thankful and love it. the inappropriate response is ALWAYS to: c) sneakily undermine those that you envy.
as radiohead sings: "the pointless snide remark/hammerheaded sharks/the pot will call the kettle black/ it's a drunken punch up at a wedding"
another inappropriate response, and one which i have fallen victim to (hence my internal tangled up feeling): d) to get pressured into thinking there is something wrong with you, and getting fearful/angry about it all, and trying to "force" inappropriate developments to keep up with the joneses. this is the path to destruction, "the dark side of the force..."
tonight, i started to lose my patience as i was working with the kids on violin. and i actually had to stop, take a breath. why was i pushing so hard? it wasn't because of the kids. actually, they're doing great. it was because SOMEONE injected this feeling, this ugly, desperate feeling in me, this prejudice about me... and as a result, i felt compelled to prove things were otherwise with me and mine.
but, as i once said (kinda nonsensically): "prove and love don't rhyme." when you try to prove yourself, you actually separate yourself from life and love, and end up failing both to live up to your potential, and to "prove anything." (who are you trying to convince, anyway???) it's only when you breathe love and patience and tolerance and compassion that things become automatically and implicitly perfect...
that's the story i'm sticking to tonight, anyway.
Friday, May 16, 2008
vog
it turns out i've been
swimming in your sea
all this time.
you've been sitting on me
as i lay asleep dreaming
sneaking into the hollow spaces in me.
set the air i breathe afire.
and then take my breath away...
swimming in your sea
all this time.
you've been sitting on me
as i lay asleep dreaming
sneaking into the hollow spaces in me.
set the air i breathe afire.
and then take my breath away...
ride the super fairy!
right now, at this very moment, lynn is listening to her favorite local commercial tune, the one for the superferry: freely freely go freely freely/freely freely go freely freely oh/a holo holo holo holo... i am so tired of making fun of it. in fact, i think she thinks it's great just to spite me...
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
explaining radiohead lyrics
so i'm driving home with the kids in the backseat. and i'm playing radiohead (track 7 of "in rainbows," and then track 8). and aiden really gets into singing the song, but he asks me what "they" (radiohead) are singing. so i tell him:
"i don't wanna be your friend, i just wanna be your lover."
and both willow and aiden concur: "that's bad, yeah, daddy?" "why doesn't he want to be your friend?"
i tell them, it's not exactly bad, in fact, it's not bad at all, because he's saying that he want to be someone's lover. next:
"no matter how it ends, no matter how it starts."
willow corrects me. "it's starts, daddy, not stahts."
i tell her, "some people pronounce it 'stahts.'"
next:
"forget about your house of cards, and i'll do the math (???)" (the latter part is probably wrong, but that's what it sounds like to me)
willow asks, "what does that mean?"
and i respond, "how should i know?" but i add, "do you know what a house of cards is?" and both willow and aiden nod.
next:
"fall off the table and get swept under"
aiden says, "that's bad. he shouldn't be on the table, yeah daddy? he's going to get hurt."
and i say, thinking, actually, for the first time: "i think he's talking about the house of cards."
and then, willow says: "that's like how the wise man builds a house on a firm foundation, like stones or rocks or bricks. the foolish man builds his house on sand, then it's going to blow away."
i think she got that from some light sermonizing over at her preschool, children's house. i kind of laugh. "yeah. i was actually thinking more about the three little piggies."
next:
"denial. denial."
aiden: "what's denial?"
me: "it's sort of like lying. like when something happens and you hide it."
willow: "that's bad. this is a bad song, daddy."
me: "..."
next:
"infrastructure will collapse"
aiden: "what's that?"
me: "okay. infrastructure. that's like- okay, you know a building? inside a building is sort of a skeleton, like a metal skeleton, and it holds the building up from inside. that's the infrastructure."
aiden, laughing: "hee hee, a skeleton!"
me: "not a real skeleton..."
willow: "what is collapse?"
me: "collapse means to fall."
willow: "oh, i get it." and she claps her hands. "claps. if you claps your hands, then the house of cards will fall."
me: "collapse, not claps. they're two different words."
willow, ignoring me: "i get it. collapse. claps." and she claps her hands.
me: sigh...
"i don't wanna be your friend, i just wanna be your lover."
and both willow and aiden concur: "that's bad, yeah, daddy?" "why doesn't he want to be your friend?"
i tell them, it's not exactly bad, in fact, it's not bad at all, because he's saying that he want to be someone's lover. next:
"no matter how it ends, no matter how it starts."
willow corrects me. "it's starts, daddy, not stahts."
i tell her, "some people pronounce it 'stahts.'"
next:
"forget about your house of cards, and i'll do the math (???)" (the latter part is probably wrong, but that's what it sounds like to me)
willow asks, "what does that mean?"
and i respond, "how should i know?" but i add, "do you know what a house of cards is?" and both willow and aiden nod.
next:
"fall off the table and get swept under"
aiden says, "that's bad. he shouldn't be on the table, yeah daddy? he's going to get hurt."
and i say, thinking, actually, for the first time: "i think he's talking about the house of cards."
and then, willow says: "that's like how the wise man builds a house on a firm foundation, like stones or rocks or bricks. the foolish man builds his house on sand, then it's going to blow away."
i think she got that from some light sermonizing over at her preschool, children's house. i kind of laugh. "yeah. i was actually thinking more about the three little piggies."
next:
"denial. denial."
aiden: "what's denial?"
me: "it's sort of like lying. like when something happens and you hide it."
willow: "that's bad. this is a bad song, daddy."
me: "..."
next:
"infrastructure will collapse"
aiden: "what's that?"
me: "okay. infrastructure. that's like- okay, you know a building? inside a building is sort of a skeleton, like a metal skeleton, and it holds the building up from inside. that's the infrastructure."
aiden, laughing: "hee hee, a skeleton!"
me: "not a real skeleton..."
willow: "what is collapse?"
me: "collapse means to fall."
willow: "oh, i get it." and she claps her hands. "claps. if you claps your hands, then the house of cards will fall."
me: "collapse, not claps. they're two different words."
willow, ignoring me: "i get it. collapse. claps." and she claps her hands.
me: sigh...
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